


Jailbird

by ThatsWildPatrick



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco, Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prison, Angst, Attempted Murder, Character Death, Character Development, Drug Addiction, Eventual Smut, F/M, Flashbacks, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Minor Relationships, Multi, Murder, Occasional fluff, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Recreational Drug Use, Unhealthy Relationships, established relationships - Freeform, some people are really ooc ngl
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2019-03-18 13:18:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 129,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13682478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatsWildPatrick/pseuds/ThatsWildPatrick
Summary: He'd seen USP Colbert before.On the outside, it was an ugly, sand coloured block of a building, surrounded by watchtowers and barbed wire fences that were four times as tall as he was. Solid and secure, it was meant to keep in the worst of society and stop them from terrorizing everyone else.It had always made him stop and stare, it had always chilled his spine- and not to mention, terrified him when he was a kid. Jokingly, his dad had always warned him to be good, unless he wanted to be locked up in there.But no matter how badly he misbehaved, Patrick had never imagined he'd actually end up there.





	1. A Rock and A Hard Place

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, maybe a brief explanation is needed?
> 
> Basically, I've been really busy and for the sake of my grades, I really needed to take a break from writing on here. But, during the break, I was also trying to get better at writing and think up some better, longer plots, and this is the first of the New And Improved™ type of stories.
> 
> And yes, it's an edgy prison au.
> 
> Anyway, my schedule's gonna change pretty drastically too. I can't do daily updates with the amount of work I have, and updates are gonna be spaced out 3 to 4 days at most. But, to make up for the wait, they are gonna be significantly longer (ex. My old chapters were approx. 5000 words, this one is 17,000).
> 
> Oh, and plot-wise, here's a disclaimer: Some people are gonna be major assholes in this story. I know they are not assholes in real life, and do not hate any of them, it's simply for story purposes.  
> I also added in a bunch of original characters because there weren't enough people in the bandom to make up the numbers.
> 
> Well, that's all! I really hope you'll all enjoy this, and I hope I haven't lost too many of you. Thanks for reading and enjoy! :)

"Patrick? Patrick- Sweetheart, can you hear me?"

  
With a shake of his head, Patrick brought himself back to his senses. Hand curled around his phone, eyes still stinging, and his mom's voice chiming into his ear, he tried to keep his voice level. "Uh- Sorry, yeah- Hi mom."

 

"Are you okay, Patrick? Did you need something?"

 

Patrick's brow furrowed softly at the string of words- not fully registering them as a question, before he shook his head again, annoyed at his own daze.

 

"Uh- no, no- I don't need anything, I just wanted to…" Patrick trailed off, eyes twitching around the room nervously. He just needed to stay calm, he'd had long enough to compose himself.

"I just wanted to let you know that uh- I'll be gone, for a little while."

 

"Oh?" She was worried. He could hear it.  
  
Patrick tried a laugh, forcing a smile onto his face and hoping it would make his words a little more convincing. He'd never liked to worry people, much less his mom. "I'm going on vacation."

 

"Oh. Well, how come?"

 

"A friend invited me- J-James, remember James? He just moved and uh- asked me to come over for a while." The explanation was weak, _flimsy_ at best; His mom wouldn't buy it.

 

"W- It seems pretty _sudden_ , I mean-"

 

"Yeah! I had some free time, and uh- might as well, right?"

 

"So, you're not coming over for lunch tomorrow? Your dad was really looking forward to it."

 

Patrick's heart, that had been jackhammering in his chest, practically skipped a beat. He swallowed past the knot in his throat, eyes prickling dangerously.

 

"I know." His voice was quiet and miserable, his facade flickering away for a moment. With a silent inhale and exhale, Patrick straightened up again, trying a tight smile on his face again. "Well, you tell him, okay? You deal with him better than I do."

There was a beat of silence, and for a moment, Patrick was sure his mom would somehow figure it all out. The anxiety was practically deafening, and just as Patrick's stomach writhed like it was full of live eels-

 

"Okay sweetheart. And- be careful, okay? Enjoy yourself."

 

Patrick swallowed thickly, knuckles paling as he gripped the phone tighter. "Yes mom." He heard his mom hum contentedly, "And call me whenever you can, alright?"

 

"I'll try, but…the signal won't be great, the place is in the middle of nowhere, I mean-"

 

"Oh, well-" The amount of badly masked disappointment and concern in his mom's words were painful; Patrick felt like he'd been punched in the gut.

 

"Wait, Patrick-" There was a note of urgency that made Patrick's finger freeze over the 'end call' button.

 

"When will you be back?"

 

 

 

_"Patrick Martin Stump, do you understand the crimes you are charged with?"_

 

_Patrick said nothing, breathing hitching quietly as he did everything to avoid the judge's stare. His mind was blank, he couldn't have answered if he'd even wanted to._

_The man's booming voice came again, filling the courtroom like a flood and heavy with the tone a parent would use to discipline their child._  
  
"Do you understand you're facing a seven-year sentence?"

 

_Seven years._

 

_Oh god._

 

_Patrick couldn't stop the ragged breath that escaped him, the tears that had been welling in his eyes unceremoniously dropping to the floor as it all fell into place with a deafening thud he could almost hear._

 

 

 

"-trick? Patrick? I asked when you'll be back, do you-"  
  
"Uh- I- I don't know, mom. We haven't talked about that yet, but uh- I don't think it'll be more than a month."

Barely placated, his mom sighed dejectedly on the other end of the phone; She could feel something was wrong, Patrick could _hear_ it.

 

"Well…have fun, sweetheart-"

 

"Mom?" There was too much desperation in his voice, but he couldn't bring himself to care anymore.

Mouth trembling and eyes feeling damp, Patrick sniffed a few pitiful words that were on the verge of breaking out into sobs. "I love you."

 

"Oh- I love you too, sweetheart- your dad sends his love too- And listen, take care of yourself-"

  
There were footsteps behind him, approaching steadily and getting louder with each one.

Patrick grimaced, knowing the time was near. He'd have to cut the motherly well-wishing short. "Okay- thanks m- Bye mom."

 

The conversation ended with a timid beep, and with a gulp, Patrick turned around.

A man- who he assumed was a prison officer, stood there, face mostly blank and arms folded behind his back. The belt and keys around his waist looked so stereotypical, Patrick wondered when the armored German Shepherds would show up.

 

"Whenever you're ready."

 

The prison officer motioned his head to the side, and Patrick was caught off guard by the mostly kindly voice. Too kindly for a place like this.

  
…Then again, maybe Patrick just looked so scared shitless he was easy to pity.

 

With a slight nod, Patrick followed the prison guard through the cold, blue-washed station. He could only stare forwards and try to fight the bile in his throat, as well as the urge to cry and run and kick and scream-

Patrick exhaled shakily, and with conviction, chose to distract himself with the bright yellow words on the back of the officer's uniform.

 

_**'Security'** _

_**'USP Colbert'** _

 

He'd seen USP Colbert before.

On the outside, it was an ugly, sand coloured block of a building, surrounded by watchtowers and barbed wire fences that were four times as tall as he was. Solid and secure, it was meant to keep in the worst of society and stop them from terrorizing everyone else.

 

It had always made him stop and stare, it had always chilled his spine- and not to mention, _terrified_ him when he was a kid. Jokingly, his dad had always warned him to be good, unless he wanted to be locked up in there.

 

But no matter how badly he misbehaved, Patrick had never imagined he'd _actually_ end up there.

 

 

The further they walked, the more things turned from wood and brick into metal, and the more precautions started popping up. More guards, more bars, less windows.

 

When they finally approached a new door- complete with frosted glass and yet another black imprint of 'USP Colbert' and 'Prisoner Admission' on its panes, the prison officer stepped aside, and pulled the door open with a loud creak.

The sound felt like a stab in the gut, but Patrick swallowed and raised his head, intent on keeping his composure. Stay calm. That's all he had to do. Stay calm and keep his head down. He'd be out of here soon anyway.

 

The door opened to reveal a small room, even more frosted windows, and another man, holding a clipboard in its center.

He was tall, and his seemingly unruly bushy brown hair had been restrained under a guard's hat. Patrick made note of the id card around his neck as he stepped inside.

 

_**USP Colbert** _

_**Chief Jailer** _

_**Raymond Toro-Ortiz** _

 

Patrick heard the door behind him shut with a squeal, and his shoulders began hunching as his previous confidence quickly began to melt away, like ice cubes in the desert.

 

 

 

 

 

Patricia put down the phone with concern niggling at her mind. She knew she shouldn't be worried, Patrick was just going on vacation- it was normal, he was just visiting James, she remembered James.  A little.

  
She  shook her head, comforting herself,  and  making her way through the house,  t owards the back door. The worry still itched under her skin.

 

The woman sighed at herself in exasperation. God- this was just her over-protectiveness kicking in; David had always said she spoiled Patrick too much, probably due to the boy being her youngest and 'the baby  of the family'  by default.

  
She couldn't be blamed for her irrational worry, but she couldn't give into it either. Patrick was  _ fine _ . He'd said so himself.

 

Patricia slid the glass doors open, shuddered at the gust of cold wind that breached the house, and tugged her cardigan tighter as she called out to her husband.

David was engrossed in sawing a plank of wood in half, no doubt for his expensive hobby of building a summer house at the foot of the garden.

 

"Patrick just called, he's visiting a friend. He's go ing to be away on vacation for a while."  
  
David stuttered to a stop, saw teeth sticking in the wood as he shifted to glance back at his wife. "So, he's not coming to lunch tomorrow?" 

Patricia could only smile sadly and shake her head. The disappointment was noticeable on her husband's face, and she understood it all too well.

 

Getting the family together was hard enough on its own, but planning a meal was even harder. And while  Megan and Kevin would make their appearances, it wouldn't be the same without their youngest.  It was never the same without Patrick.

 

 

 

 

 

" Turn it off, and memorize your PIN number."

 

Patrick stared down at his phone, fingers curled around it as he almost didn't want to let it go. If he did, it was just another harsh sever to any connections he might have to the outside.

 

"You might forget it after seven years."

  
But as he glanced up at  Chief  Toro, seeing authority  in his eyes as he searched Patrick's rucksack- the only thing he was allowed to bring ,  and  Patrick realized it wasn't like he had a choice right now.

Right now, he was stuck, but he wouldn't be for long. He was gonna be out soon.

 

"Right, everything's in  size ' small', and you've got six changes of clothes." Patrick's head jolted to the side, eyes falling on plastic box that was full to the brim with yellow prison jumpsuits, white shirts, underwear, and shoes- no laces. 

Patrick seriously wondered if anyone had ever strangled someone else with a shoelace, and if such a precaution was really needed; It just seemed a little-

 

"Did you hear me?"

 

Patrick's gaze jumped up to the man behind the counter, who looked more concerned than the mean and angry Patrick had been expecting. He had blue eye s and hair just as mousey and unruly as the  chief 's, only his had been cut short. Patrick idly wondered if it was voluntary or not.

 

Instead of the  chief uniforms Patrick had seen so far though, the man behind the counter was dressed in the same kind of yellow jumpsuit that sat in the box. He was a prisoner.

  
A spike of fear immediately rose through Patrick; The guy looked nice enough, but this wasn't a high security prison for nothing-

 

"What's this for?"  
  
Patrick's gaze snapped back to the  o fficer.

Chief Toro's brow was raised, and in his hand was a bottle of pills with a white cap and label- reading 'Xanax' in purple letters.

 

"I-I have anxiety. It's only forty pills- I-"

 

"And what are you gonna do when you run out?"

 

"I'll be out of here by then, hopefully."

 

There was a lazy snort of laughter from the prisoner behind the counter \- silenced by a stern look from Toro, while Patrick quickly  hurri ed to explain himself.

 

"I'm here by mistake, I swear. I'm gonna change my lawyer, and everything's gonna  get clear ed up.  _ Soon _ . " Patrick glanced to his side, squinting at the man behind the counter who nodded to himself mockingly; It didn't look too malicious, but Patrick still didn't appreciate it.

 

He was gonna be out of here soon, they'd see,  they'd all see . 

 

Chief Toro noticeably held back a sigh, before picking his clipboard and reeling off business-like phrases that he must've said a million times to a million terrified people.

 

"This is a high security prison. All personal items are forbidden. If you need medication, you'll need a prescription from our in-house doctor. Do you have a contact number?"

 

Patrick's face blanked, but Toro's only  crossed with  distant concern. "…A relative? A friend?"

 

Patrick said nothing again, eyes wide and glassy as he stood frozen, like a deer in the headlights.

 

Toro tried again.  _ Slowly _ .  "In case of an emergency?"

 

With a quiet clear of his throat, Patrick's eyes blinked quickly, and he shook his head to clear the clouds before pushing away all thoughts of his family. "Uh- What kind of emergency?"

 

Chief Toro seemingly couldn't help a small shrug, "An accident, a heart attack-"  
  
"A stabbing with a rusty _ shiv _ -"

 

"Trohman-" The chief tutted the name, eyes solid but exasperated as though this was a regular occurrence. The prisoner only held his hands up, protesting silent innocence as he turned away to lock Patrick's things behind a small tray, labelled ' _02643/ Stump, Patrick_'.

 

T he wall of the trays, all reading numbers and names, was slightly intimidating, but the prisoner didn't seem phased.

 

Chief Toro's attention was back on Patrick almost immediately, and seeing no other way out, the younger man sighed, and nodded. "I'll give you my parents' numbers- but, don't call them unless there's no other option. Please."

 

Toro raised an eyebrow, pen poised on his clipboard.

  
Patrick shrugged timidly. "I haven't told them I'm here."

 

There was  a  disbelieving  exhale  behind the counter. "No way."

Patrick's eyes shot to the side, watching the prisoner lean on the counter, forearms braced and ears perked. "Well- What did you tell them?"  
Patrick shrugged again, only, a little more irritably this time. "That I'm on vacation."

 

Suddenly, the inmate's jovial tone sank, and something more mature and worried took its place. "You're kidding, right?"

  
Patrick said nothing, he only lowered his head and looked back to the  chief , who was quick to  knit his brow. "Number?"

Without much hesitation, Patrick reeled off his dad's number, followed by his mom's, all while ignoring the concerned, long stares from  the prisoner that burned into the side of his face.

 

With the last digit scribbled down on the paper,  Chief Toro nodded and motioned his head to wards the frosted glass door behind them. "Follow me."

  
Patrick swallowed nervously, quickly hoisting up his plastic box with a final look at the inmate behind the counter- who gave him a soft, almost apologetic smile,  along with a small wave .

 

 

 

Another door shut with a squeal, and Patrick was faced with another, arguably more depressing room. He was starting to wonder just how many of these there were,  and how many he'd have to go through,  before his eyes raked over the new people in the room as he joined the row they were organized in.

 

There were five people-  excluding himself , and beside each one, a small, cold-looking metal table; Patrick didn't even want to wonder what those were for.

  
There wasn't much time for contemplation before the  chief began speaking, voice as neutral and commandeering. Patrick felt like he'd been sent to the principal's office, but  far, far  worse.

 

"My name is Ray Toro, I'm in charge of the cell blocks."

 

The  chief stood at the other side of the room, and by his sides were two other men- definitely officers, who  almost looked bored . 

Toro was writing on the clipboard non-committally for a moment, before glancing up at the row of men for a second. "But to the inmates, I'm Chief Jailer."

 

"Take off your clothes, and leave them on the tables to your sides." Brown eyes dropped back towards the clipboard and Patrick felt his heart stop.

 

This was the side of prison he'd been happy to  forget about until now; All those jokes about 'dropping the soap' he'd heard over the years were suddenly more  petr ifying than funny.

 

Fuck. Fuck, screw it. He couldn't cause a scene, and he definitely wasn't gonna be forcefully undressed like a toddler throwing a tantrum  at  bath time.

With a sharp, 'pull-yourself-together' kind of exhale, Patrick complied, ignoring the leaping in his chest and the shakiness of his hands.

 

Patrick didn't know where to look. Looking down at himself made him feel sick, looking to the sides would probably get him beaten up, and looking forwards at the officers was just awkward as hell.

So, instead, Patrick kept his eyes squinted, his vision blurry, and he calmed himself by distracting himself with the rules Officer Toro was reeling off robotically.

 

"At USP Colbert, the day starts at 7am."

 

Bad news already; Patrick was  _ not _ a n  early bird.

He started with his shoes, untying the laces and stepping on heels to pull them off.

 

"So, tomorrow, when you hear the siren, you have fifteen minutes to get dressed, make your bed, and line up to be counted in your cell."

 

A siren? So he'd start the day with a heart attack. Fantastic.

Socks were the next logical step.

 

"Then there's breakfast-"

  
  
Probably gross salted oatmeal.

Ah yes, his 'I'm-purposefully-trying-to-look-like-a-delinquent-take-that-mom' hoodie. He was gonna miss it.

 

"-and workshops-"

 

Patrick couldn't help a harsh shiver as he pulled his shirt off, head pounding as reality set in again.

Getting naked hadn't been his strong suit at any other time-  ( thanks  very much low self-esteem ) but being watched, standing beside other  naked  people, and in a freezing cold room? 'Mortified' couldn't even come close to how he felt  at that moment .  


"These will be explained to you shortly." Toro glanced up coolly. "Any questions?" Patrick wondered if he'd been this chill about it the first time.

 

"Can we make calls?"

A man to Patrick's right spoke up, but remembering that everyone was in various states of undress, he decided to focus on  the prongs of  his belt instead.

 

Chief Toro reeled off the customary answer, voice completely casual as though the guy asking it wasn't as naked as the day he was born.

 

"You have to make an application for each call to be approved by management." Toro glanced back down at his clipboard, while the other two officers at his sides were silent. Patrick's brow furrowed a little as he undid his fly.  
Why were those guys even here? Was this just intimidation? Scare tactics? Did they just like watching?  
Patrick couldn't help the disgusted shudder that crossed him. He really hoped that the latter wasn't the case.

 

"Anything else?" Toro glanced up again.

 

"So, your guys took my soap and my toothbrush and stuff. Are we gonna get that back, or?" Another voice- younger and cleaner, came from Patrick's left, but he dutifully ignored it again, focusing on not tripping over as he slid his jeans off, balancing on one leg as he freed either foot.

 

"You get a basic sanitary kit. If you want anything else, there's a commissary. You can buy whatever you want there."

 

There was a harsh scoff from Patrick's right, but it was further away, and the voice that followed it was gruff and hard. "How? You took all our money."

Placing his jeans on the table, Patrick's nose wrinkled ruefully.

Yes, he remembered the two hundred dollars they'd taken from him at the police station. Fucking assholes.

 

Once again, however, Chief Toro had a calm, calculated response. "You'll get jail cheques in exchange for working at the workshops. Anything else?"

 

"Yeah," Another voice, seemingly familiar, came from Patrick's left again. "Are there bathrooms in the cells?"

 

Patrick's fingers hooked around the edges of his boxers. He could feel his pulse hammering through them. Okay. Okay, he just needed to calm down. He had to do it, there was no way around this.

 

"No. There's a bathroom in each block."

 

Patrick exhaled shakily and pulled the boxers off, dropping them on the table in the most business-like way he could manage.

He found himself fighting down panic, bile, and the urge to cover himself up. Even worse, he could feel his cheeks burning, and thanks to his bleach-like complexion, he was probably bright red. Or god forbid, pink.

  
"It's forbidden to loiter and talk in the hallways."

 

The moment the rustling of clothes stopped, the two officers by Chief Toro's sides turned to the table behind them, and began pulling on gloves- one on one hand, three on the other.

 

Fuck.

 

The tables had been a bad sign, but _gloves_? Gloves were even worse-

 

There was a loud snap of elastic that made them all jump, as the officer on Toro's right tugged at one of his gloves. The slight smirk on his face was quickly smothered as he earned a glare from his superior.

  
"You're all new." Turning back to the new inmates, Toro sighed, looking around at them as the two officers by his sides, now gloved and waiting for orders, returned to their places.

  
"And as soon as you go through that door," Chief Toro's eyes grew steady. "They'll _humiliate_ you, in order to subdue you."

Brown eyes scanned faces solidly. "They'll make you hide their drugs, carry them around, collect them on fake private visits."

Toro's voice dropped, becoming warning and slow. The room suddenly felt a few degrees colder.

 

"Don't do it."

 

There was silence, and the chief took a moment to squint at each one of them, before speaking up again. "Place your feet on the yellow line."

 

With a snap of his head, Patrick looked down. A thick yellow line was painted across the floor, and not wanting to single himself out any more, Patrick stepped back quickly.

 

"Turn around."

 

Patrick wanted to scream. God fucking damn it- gloves were _never_ a good sign.

Despite his stomach writhing as though a goddamn Xenomorph had taken up residence, Patrick complied- along with the others in the row. There was no point in kicking up a fuss, he just had to get this over with.

 

"Place your hands on the wall."

 

Once again, Patrick complied. Despite everything inside him freezing over like the arctic.

The wall was cold and smooth under his fingers and palms, and he opted to make out all the minute scratches and scrapes on the concrete as he mentally prepared himself for-

 

"Spread your legs."  
  
It was just sadism at this point.

But Patrick did as he was told, there was no point in complaining.

 

There was a beat of silence, but before Patrick fully registered what footsteps meant for him right now, Toro was speaking and the two nameless guards were surging forwards to either end of the row.

 

"You'll be asked for money and favours in exchange for protection."

 

There was a pained hiss from his left, and Patrick's eyes darted to their corners to watch the farthest man jolt and ball his hands into fists against the wall.

 

"Don't give in."

  
Patrick shut his eyes, dropped his head and tried to fight off the anxiety that the silence and preamble brought- all while trying to ignore pained noises.

There was an elastic-like snap, that sounded like a glove being peeled off, and suddenly, the three layers made sense.

 

"I advise you to stay strong."

 

Patrick wasn't sure if Chief Toro's advice was for prison life, or for this situation right now. Whatever the case, Patrick was grateful for something to distract himself with- other than the indignant grunt of the man next to him.

 

"In here, crimes mean an increase of your sentence,"  
  
Another glove being peeled off, and footsteps approaching; Patrick's heart felt like a jackhammer trying to break through titanium.

 

"and immediately cancel any attempt to reduce it."

 

One of the gloved officers was behind him now, and Patrick could only bury his teeth in his tongue and cheeks.

He thought about making an excuse, about trying to run- even about socking the guy in the jaw, but of course, Patrick didn't do any of that. Patrick complied.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Pete."

 

The prison guard's eyes snapped up to the Governor. She stood at the door to her office, face expectedly neutral and shrewd eyes squinting at Pete, making the worn wrinkles in their corners bunch up. "Come in."

Pete held back any retort- God knows those had gotten him in enough trouble before, and got up, pacing past her into the room.

 

It was funny, but, even in here- the fancy Governor's office, decked out with mahogany desks and chairs, it still felt like a prison.  
That soul-crushing cloud that hung over every inch of USP Colbert's territory was obvious and tangible anywhere- even if you were in the cafe, or…in the Governor's office…with the guy you might've maybe sorta punched in the face.

 

The other man looked petulant, seemed to be cowering, and looked all too pathetic with that band aid on his nose, and the stitches across his eyebrow.

It was deserved, in Pete's opinion, but the boss didn't seem to share his logic.

 

"Next time, it won't be 20 days of suspension without pay."

 

She swiftly took her place behind her desk, hands folding as she squinted at Pete firmly- who in turn, sat in the wooden chair beside the other man.

 

"Next time, you're fired. Am I clear?"

 

Pete exhaled quietly and nodded, head lolling to the side. He knew he was probably acting like a kid, but he'd heard that empty threat so many times that it no longer meant anything to him. "Yes. I understand, Governor."

 

"Good." The woman nodded, folding her hands on the table, and looking between the men. "Well, now I want you to apologize."

 

Pete held back a roll of his eyes.

 

"You two settle your differences and start behaving like colleagues. Alright?" Her voice was firm, but her sharp brown eyes were even firmer. Pete's eyebrows hitched up slightly; She might actually mean business this time.

There was a prolonged silence until the Governor's stare tacked onto Pete, swiftly reminding him that he was _supposed_ to be apologizing.

 

"Look, Walker…" They weren't on a first name basis. First name basis had lasted a week, and then Pete had realized just how much he disliked _Jon Walker_.

 

Pete saw the other man shift to look at him in his peripheral vision, and it wasn't long before he raked his eyes over fully, turning his head towards him. "I made a mistake."

 

There was a steady hum: A phone vibrating, no doubt with a call, from the Governor's small handbag that sat beside her on the desk.

She distracted herself with the phone, but still kept an eye on Pete, making sure the apology wouldn't fizzle out half way through.

 

Pete hated apologizing. Or, more specifically, Pete hated apologizing to _Walker_.  
  
"I made a mistake punching you."

 

"Yes?" The Governor swiveled on her chair, eyes wide and bright as the person on the other end took importance over the squabbling coworkers. "Yes- I called you earlier-"

 

Well, she wasn't paying attention anymore; This apology could go fuck itself.

 

Pete raised his brow at Walker, leaned closer and lowered his voice to a whisper. "Next time, it won't be a punch." He cocked his head, not bothering with a smirk or a grin- too cliché. "Next time, I'll rip your head off and bury it in a heap of shit."

 

The Governor moved to put the phone away again, and Pete moved back just in time, making sure his voice was nice and high and apologetic. "Well, now that everything's sorted out, I just hope you accept my apology." Pete held out a hand, offering a handshake while he kept his eyes trained on Walker's.

 

Walker exhaled quietly, hesitating. The Governor's stare was glued to _him_ now.

 

Pete wondered what he'd do.

 

Walker was unpredictable at the best of times, but they both knew that it would be much better for Jon to just shake Pete's hand. Despite the threat.

 

…But of course, instead, Walker did just about the worst thing he could have done for himself.

  
He shrugged away from the hand, bolting out of the seat and stomping out of the room with the devil in his eyes.

 

Pete had won this round, and he knew it too. Working hard to hide a satisfied smile, he raised his brow at the Governor, but before he could ask to be excused, the woman sighed.

 

"What happened?"

 

Pete shrugged dejectedly, eyes dropping with feigned disappointment. "He'll get over it, I guess."

  
The Governor stopped, freezing in her seat for a moment as brown eyes latched onto the young man, almost calling him out. "We are surrounded by violence, Pete. We should be an example for these men."

 

It was a well known fact that Pete Wentz couldn't go more than five minutes without sassing someone, and the time must've been up, because Pete only snorted and shrugged. "That guy's an asshole-"  
  
"Get out." The Governor seemed exhausted, drooping bonelessly in her chair like a mother done telling off her children.

Pete left without another word, he wasn't about to wake the dragon right now, and besides, she'd forget about this by tomorrow.

 

 

 

 

 

_"Free passage is forbidden in Cell Block 2."_

 

A woman's voice called from the speakers, so cold and perfect it almost sounded like a robot rather than a human being.

 

_"I repeat: Free passage is forbidden in Cell Block 2."_

 

Patrick walked behind Chief Toro and the others in the row.

He was dressed in a yellow prison jumpsuit now, and things felt far too concrete. He knew the words 'USP Colbert' were on his back, emblazoned in black against the bright fabric; They burned like a hot iron brand, he could feel their weight on his shoulders.

His hands were clasped around his plastic box, his fingernails digging into the soft plastic painfully.

 

His stomach dropped further with every step. Things had started feeling a lot more real after he'd left the search room.

 

The prison was the coldest, greyest place he'd been in yet. Metal bars and railings were everywhere, and officers dressed in navy uniforms were dotted around like shadows.

  
_ " Attention: Dangerous inmates will be entering the courtyard in 5 minutes." _

 

Patrick blinked up at the walls, then the ceiling. The place was huge, and not in the good way. All the metal, grey paint, and black letters were broken up by yellow railings, but the bright colour did absolutely nothing to make things cheery.  
They stopped in front of a small desk that looked somewhat like a reception.

 

To their left was a large, barred gate separated them from the cells, and to their right was the visitor's entrance- glass doors and huge windows.  _ Freedom _ …behind another gate, of course.

 

" I've got four for Cell Block 2, and two for Cell Block 3." At the sound of Toro's voice, Patrick's head fell back  down . The  chief passed his clipboard to the man behind the desk, and as they spoke, a loud, blaring klaxon drowned out their word s .

 

The scraping of a gate filled his ears next, and he turned to watch the gate to the cells slide back with a noise like fingernails on a chalkboard.

 

Chief Toro said nothing more to them.  Wordlessly, he s tepp ed in front of them,  shepherded Patrick and three others through the gate.

 

And the moment they crossed the threshold, the jeers began.

 

"Hey  _ blondie _ -"

" Oh god, just l ook at 'em,  so precious -"

 

He looked up. The gangways were empty, but the cells were  _ full _ of prisoners. All wearing yellow jumpsuits, beating on the bars with their fists, whistling,  mocking, and laughing at the newcomers- as well as shouting  crass  insults and catcalls.

 

"You got a stick up your ass or something-"

"The wardens weren't too rough with you, were they baby-"

 

It  _ was _ humiliating. Toro had been right about that.  
Then again, it wasn't too different from how he remembered school; Only, the bullies had been trying to beat him up, rather than fuck him.

Patrick ducked his head, chin pressing against his collarbones as he tried to avoid any stares or calls that came his way. Just walk forwards, follow the others. He'd be out of here soon, he could put up with it for a little while.

 

" B eautiful-"

"Hey, come here-"

 

Whistles, clanging, words that were lost in the ruckus- Patrick had never heard that much  _ noise _ . It felt like his goddamn eardrums were about to burst.

 

"Bring the blond one over here, chief!"

"Leave him over here!"

 

Then they stopped.

 

The row. Not the prisoners, unfortunately.

 

Patrick glanced up, watching Toro as he opened a cell with his card. "Tyrell Gibbs. Cell 202." The tall dark man directly in front of Patrick walked into the cell wordlessly.

They left 'Luis Mendoza' in the cell next to that one, and after being asked how much he  _ 'cost' _ by a particularly insane-looking inmate, Patrick  hastily  followed the officer as the last of the newcomers found their cells.

 

Toro led them up the large concrete stairs in the center of everything next, firmly pacing as he stopped beside another cell. "Scott Crawford. Cell 233."

 

Once it was only him left, Patrick followed Officer Toro another six feet, before stopping abruptly next to another cell.

  
"Patrick Stump. Cell 234."

 

There were two sets of barriers between the cell and the gangway.

 

First, a solid metal wall with only a square window in the center slid back, to then reveal the metal bars Patrick had expected.

Once those slid away too, Patrick's gaze raked over the cell, taking as much in, in as little time as he could.

  
Two bunk beds, four beds. Three were occupied, and on the left, there was one, empty bottom bunk-  _ presumably his _ .

 

On the right side of the room,  the top bunk was occupied by a blonde man with sharp features, who only mustered a cool, raised eyebrow at Patrick. He was splayed on the bed carelessly, idly reading a  magazine while swinging his leg.

 

In the bottom bunk however, there was  tall,  skinny  man who looked to be on the edge of throwing up. Hunched over, eyes squeezed shut, clutching a rosary, and  muttering hushed prayers \- the man had short, dark hair that fell over his face, and looked tangled at a glance.  There was something up with him, that much was obvious. He looked truly disturbed.

 

Patrick really hoped he wouldn't end up like that.

 

P atrick's eyes shifted to the other bunk. A man was sat cross-legged on the top bed,  idly flicking through a thick book, but instead of wearing a yellow suit- he was dressed in orange.

His shrewd brown eyes were squinted slightly, and he seemed completely still until Patrick took a step into the room.

  
Catlike, the man jumped down from his bunk without a sound, before stalking towards Patrick- despite the composure on his face. He stopped dead in front of Patrick, but his eyes were glued on Chief Toro, not on the newcomer.

 

"Chief." The man's voice was soft, but the way he spoke to Toro indicated  that he was  the complete opposite. "There must've been a mistake." The inmate shook his head, brow furrowing and a humorless, polite smile crossing his face.

 

"The new bie goes to another cell. We're full."

 

Patrick's eyes snapped towards the empty bed, but before he could make any protests, Toro spoke up for him. "Patrick Stump was assigned to this cell."

The man in orange blinked wordlessly, before Toro spoke up again- only, to Patrick this time. "Let's go, Stump. Put your things on that shelf and make your bed."

 

Patrick nodded quietly, making a move towards the bed, before- "Stop it, newbie." The man in orange side-stepped into his way, eyes burning but still somehow calm.

Toro sighed heavily from behind them. "Do what I said, Stump."

 

" Don't do it."

 

"Do it!"

 

"No!" The word was curt, and the man in orange was getting visibly annoyed with every word that came from Toro, and with every move that came from Patrick.

 

"Do it, Stump!"

 

The man in orange shook his head again,  voice lowering to a whisper, but eyes still glued on Toro.

 

"No."

 

Patrick was frozen and shaking. What the fuck was he supposed to do? Listening to authority was the default in these situations, but- he wasn't gonna ignore the prisoner either; He was fucking terrifying.

A tense silence fell over them, but Toro's voice quickly rose again. "You think you can do whatever you want, Ross? Do I have to remind you who is the prisoner here?"

 

"No need for any police brutality." 'Ross' shook his head, eyes wide and mocking for a moment before they narrowed again. "I'm just telling the _Cell Block Chief_ that we're really cramped in here."

 

The lie was blatant, but Toro stayed silent.

 

"If we get another inmate, he might have to sleep on the floor."

The orange-clad man turned, gesturing at the men on the bunks. "Right, guys?"

 

The blond man, who had suddenly taken an interest in proceedings, leaned on his side and nodded quickly. However, from the man holding the rosary, there was only silence.

The blond narrowed his eyes, and in one harsh move, swung his heel into the other man's face with a painful thud that made Patrick flinch. "Answer, damn it!"

 

The tall man hissed but said nothing. He only nodded fervently, cradling the side of his face that was quickly reddening.

Patrick glanced behind him to see Toro stalking forwards, stopping eye to eye with the orange-dressed inmate. "I'll move him so you won't ruin his life." Ross tilted his head, wearing a painfully fake grateful smile on his face that only seemed to poke the anger in the chief.

 

"You think you rule, but you're wrong." Toro's eyes narrowed once more, and his voice lowered warningly. "So be very, very careful."

 

There was a moment of silence that felt like a full minute before the officer turned to Patrick again.

 

"Let's go."

 

With that, Toro turned and gestured Patrick to follow him. He followed, chest flooding with relief at not staying with those bonafide psychopaths. But the moment they were on the other side of the cell, watching the bars slide closed, a voice chimed up from behind them.

  
"Why don't you check your mobile, Chief?"

 

Toro froze, glanced behind him, and watched Ross smile at him sweetly. "Then we'll see who rules, and who better be careful."

 

At those words, Toro wasted no time in stalking away from the cell. Clearly it had gotten to him, but Patrick had other things on his mind than whatever was on the chief's phone.

He strode up beside the other man, "S-Sorry, I'd like to change the number I gave in case of emergency."

 

Toro didn't seem to be listening, instead, his eyes twitched from side to side nervously as he walked, gaze scanning every cell he saw.

Patrick exhaled shakily, he had to keep trying. "I want to give you my brother's, instead- My dad's just had surgery, a bypass, and-"

 

"You can request the change tomorrow."

 

They descended a set of stairs, but soon enough Toro came to a stop, as he saw another officer. It seemed to calm him, and completely forgetting Patrick- scared and small behind him, he distracted himself instead.

  
He nodded at the new officer, "Back to work?"

 

Patrick blinked at the other officer; Dark hair, dark eyes, skin a little on the darker side, and, while obviously young, there were huge bags under his eyes. Probably the result of working night shifts, he assumed.

  
The man nodded, "Looks like it." The chief huffed in response, "I'm glad." He made a move to leave, before stopping and nodding his head back Patrick's way.

 

"Hey, Pete, do me a favour. Take this one to 225."

 

Taking silence as a 'yes', Toro pressed his clipboard at Pete, and hastily left, with a final call back of- "Stump. Thanks."

 

The other officer raked his eyes over the clipboard, before glancing over at Patrick briefly and nodding. "Let's go."

Patrick nodded quickly, following the officer dutifully as a poignant shout from one of the cells cut across the ambience.

 

"Hey blondie, are you hungry? You're gonna eat a whole lotta  cock !"

 

There was an uproar of laughter, and the taunts started up with a whole new fervor to them. Patrick couldn't help the petrified look at stuck to his face, and god knows it didn't help the insults that were hurled his way.  


"Patrick Stump. Cell 225." When Pete stopped at a cell, Patrick took a moment to lean over the railing, breathing heavily as the beginnings of tears prickled at his eyes.  
He heard Pete move to open the doors, but quickly shook his head, rounding on Pete with wide, desperate eyes. "N-n-no- No, I can't, I can't-"  
  
"What's up with you?" Pete raised a brow, eyes trained on Patrick. "I-I don't know- I think- I think I'm having a panic- panic attack, o-or-"

At this point, Patrick didn't know if he was bullshitting or not anymore, but there was no point in giving up halfway through. If he was gonna lie, might as well go big.

"I-I need to see a doctor, please- please- I'm begging you-"

 

Pete said nothing for a moment, eyes studious and penetrating. And when he did speak, Patrick was attacked with a barrage of questions he didn't have more than mere seconds to process.

 

"Are you shaky?"

 

"A little, I g-guess-"

 

"Blurred vision?"

 

"No, but-"

 

"Dizziness?"

 

"No."

 

"Cramps?"

 

"N-No-"

 

"Chest pain?"

 

"No."

 

Pete leant back, noticeably held in a sigh, and raised his brow at  the frazzled, dazed-looking  Patrick.

"Then there's nothing wrong with you." He motioned his head at the cell, a pitiful smile playing at the corners of his lips, and eyes wrinkling in their corners.

Pete muttered a barely audible- "Sorry kid."  B efore opening the doors, and  watching them slide open with the sounds of  scraping metal.

 

The cell doors were wide open now, and Patrick knew there was nothing else he could do to get away.

With a nod to the officer, he stepped forwards, eyes flitting around the room quickly, trying to process as much of it as he could- all as the doors slid closed behind him, scraping and scratching and killing any hope of freedom right then and there.

 

This room was just like the one before; Two bunk beds at either sides of the room, and a table and chairs in the middle of it all.

Just like the other cell, three inmates sat on three beds- and an empty, fourth was waiting for Patrick.

 

Patrick swallowed nervously, shuffled his shoes, and despite his try at speaking like a normal, adult man, his voice escaped him in a pitiful squeak that made him sound like he was in kindergarten, introducing himself to the rest of the class.

 

"Hello. I'm new."

 

He glanced around, but the three men were silent, and Patrick could think of nothing better to do than fill the silence with  _ something _ . "My name is Patrick." 

 

His voice seemed to have revert to pre-puberty.  A real medical phenomenon.  Great.

 

Three bursts of laughter filled the room, and Patrick suddenly felt three inches shorter.

The man on the lower, left bunk, was  _ covered _ in  bright  tattoos, seemingly the only part that had been spared was his face. Those, along with the beard and how jacked the guy looked, had made Patrick determined to keep his distance at first, but-

 

He'd been reading a book, and stopped laughing first, but he kept a smile on his face regardless. "Welcome to the presidential suite, dude."

 

Patrick's shoulders dropped slightly, a wave of relief crashing into him. The guy's voice was…not what he'd been expecting; Soft and high were words he would've never even associated with that guy, and yet-

 

The man from the top bunk breathed a laugh, falling back into his bed. He-  like the other, was similarly tattooed, only his were black, and Patrick swore he'd spied a scorpion on his neck- "Oh god, what a shame-"  
  
There was a tut from the man on the other top bunk, and Patrick's head snapped around to see a man with dyed, red hair-  " Looks like he's seen a ghost -"

 

Wait. They were talking about  _ him _ .  It had all become a blur, and he hadn't even noticed-   
Patrick honestly didn't know how he missed these things.   


Scorpion-man chimed in again, shaking his head and angling it down to stare at Patrick from where he lay. "Nah, he's clearly _snow white_ -"

 

"Well, I-" Patrick was about to make excuses and blame  it all on some distant Irish genes, but the taunts just didn't let up.

 

"You seen the seven dwarfs  around here ?"

"When's prince charming showin' up?"

"Looks like Casper the friendly ghos-"

 

"I'm just really tired." Patrick muttered more to himself than to the others, lowering his head and training his eyes on his bed.

There was a hum from the other bottom bunk, and he glanced over to see the tattoo-covered man nod, "You'll sleep okay  here , Frank snores like a bitch though-"  
Frank made an indignant noise, leaning over the side to  protest  at the other man. "I do  _ not _ -"

 

"That's my bed, right?" Patrick motioned his head towards the empty bottom bunk, and the red-haired man didn't miss a beat, nodding lazily. "That's it," He huffed  bemusedly, eyebrows raising in a mocking- but, not  _ cruel _ , way. "100% memory foam."

 

They all exploded into laughter again, as Patrick swallowed and trudged towards his bed-  that he now assumed was probably the opposite of memory foam. He wouldn't have been surprised to have found bricks under the bedding.

 

Frank made a noise, raising his brows at Patrick.  "That  _ was  _ the bed we used for group jerk-off sessions, but boys-"  He pointed at the other two- who were snickering again.  " it's  a  private  area  now, got it?"

The other twos' renewed laughter comforted Patrick that it had just a joke at his expense, and nothing more.

 

"I'm gonna go to sleep." Patrick almost whimpered to himself, shoving his box under the bed and lying down- all while trying to ignore the continued jabs at how pale and short and blond he was.

 

"Aw, he's not in the mood-"

"Get some sleep, dude. You must be exhausted."

"Yeah,  _ exhausted _ , poor kid."

 

And with that, Patrick did his best to ignore the other three men, wrapping the thin blanket around himself fully, and hiding his face under it. He curled up into a ball, tucking his knees against his chest as he squeezed his eyes shut and tried his best not to cry.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ray unlocked his locker, dejectedly opening it wide. Ross had gotten to him so bad, that he'd stashed his phone away in here and had neglected to look at it.

 

Ignoring his phone yet again, his eyes shifted over to the pictures on the inside of the door. His lips broke out into a smile, he couldn't help it; There were two pictures stuck to the metal.

 

One was of his wife, smile bright but eyes tired, and arms full with two small twins. His children had been newborns in that picture, only a few days old whereas now they were both on the verge of saying their first words.

Ray really hoped he'd be able to hear  them , but alas work kept him  _ here _ , in this…miserable place.

 

He tried to ignore the grey and the cold- and the looming presence of his phone, and instead, blinked over at the other picture.

 

That picture was only of the twins, dressed in white and holding hands in their peaceful sleep. These pictures never failed to put a soft smile of Ray's face, and they calmed him down whenever one of those jumpsuit-clad bastards tried to ruin his day.

 

There was a loud buzz, and his staring at the pictures was suddenly interrupted by what he'd been trying to ignore.

With a sharp sigh, Ray snatched the phone and squinted down at the screen; He wasn't going to be intimidated by a man like _Ryan Ross_ , he couldn't give that son of a bitch the satisfaction-

 

It was an unknown number, and it had sent nothing but a video. With similar impatience, Ray pressed play and furrowed his brow at the screen.

  
It was dark, the camera was moving, and there was breathing from the cameraman invading every second of footage.

It seemed stupid at first, and as Ray became more and more tempted  to shut the phone off, he recognized something.

 

His bedroom door.

 

His bedroom door…with a scratch on the left pane, with a premature child safety gadget fastened around the door handle-

 

He froze.

 

T he cameraman moved forwards, breathing growing quieter as the video showed Ray…himself. Asleep. In his room, in his-

The viewfinder moved over to his wife, silently asleep beside him.

 

Ray's heart was pounding, he couldn't fucking believe this, there was no way Ross had done this. He  _ couldn't _ have done this-

 

The camera moved away from Ray, and instead, towards his children.

 

Ray gave an involuntary, ragged breath. He would've rather watched a hundred hours of himself asleep, than have ever had that fucking stranger near his children.

 

The camera got closer to the twins. They were covered with blankets and fussing in their sleep, as they always did. The cameraman made sure to get every angle of their faces and Ray couldn't take it anymore. 

He all but threw the phone into the locker and slammed it shut, splaying his hands on the metal and breathing heavily. 

Somehow,  at some point,  Ross had gotten into his house.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

" No- Patrick, not like that."

 

Patrick- who had been dutifully making his bed, glanced behind him to see the red-haired man who slept on the bunk above him.

He moved forwards, tucking the bed sheets under the mattress tightly. "Look, you gotta tuck the sheet  _ and _ the blanket under." Patrick stared at the man blankly, caught between a 'thank you' and a 'why?'

 

The man only stood, and climbed back up to his own bed. "If they're loose, you'll be penalized" Patrick gave a heavy nod, feeling incredibly slow and sluggish as he sat back down on the now- neatly made bed.

 

"Hey." The tattooed man- who was sat at the table, still reading his book, raised his gaze to Patrick. "What's your story?"

Patrick blinked, that was the first time he'd been pulled into a somewhat normal conversation since he'd arrived. He shrugged quickly, "I'm from around here. Cook county, Glenview."

Frank hummed dismissively from his bunk, eyes still glued to his book. "No, he means- 'why are you here?'"

 

Patrick made a small noise of realization; The conversation wouldn't be so normal, then. He shrugged again. "Actually, I shouldn't be here. I'm here by mistake."

The other three huffed bemusedly, but mercifully, they didn't laugh at him or take the jokes any further. The red-haired man leant down from where he sat. "And how many years did you get _by mistake_?"

Patrick quietened. He hated thinking about it, it would always set his mood back to zero.

 

"Seven."

 

" Well that's a very big mistake, isn't it?" The man with dyed hair chuckled,  but the tattooed man only inhaled sharply  at the number, before shaking his head and muttering. "Nobody gets seven years for no reason."

  
"Very true!" Frank pointed at Patrick from his bunk briefly, eyes still stuck to the pages of his book. "Just like this guy. Cooking your friend alive gets you life-"

  
"Shut up, Frank." Andy's voice was laced with a little more venom than Patrick had expected, but he didn't miss the jab. Eyes wide and scanning between them both, he stuttered a few words. "You burnt your friend alive?"

"Accident. Believe me." Andy shrugged, something a little more remorseful crossing his face. The red-haired man sighed from the top bunk again, "That's why he's vegan now." He clicked his tongue at Andy, "Burning man smells like bacon, right Andy?"

 

The man at the table sighed quietly and then fell silent, eyes trained on his book again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ray moved forwards through the chapel quietly, he felt a lot more humbled now. Churches had always done that to him, but the video on his mobile had contributed a whole lot.

The image of his children, fussing and cooing in the dark while a stranger- a criminal hovered over them like some sick, twisted fairy godmother-  Fuck , it made him sick.   


There was only one person sat on the pews, but from the straight mop of dark brown hair, the narrow shoulders and the silence- Ray knew it was Ryan.

With a muted sigh, the officer sat on the bench behind him, and it only took five seconds of deathly silence before Ross shattered it.

 

"Do you know what  the scary thing about God  is ?"

 

Ray wasn't in the mood for jokes and riddles and mind games to make Ross feel more superior than he already was-

 

Fuck. He had to stay calm.

He had to play along, as much as he wanted to beat Ryan's face to a mushy, bloody pulp and to  _ scream _ at him to never come near his children again- he couldn't.

Instead, he shook his head. "No."

 

Ryan's head tilted, and his eyes fixed on the large wooden cross behind the simple altar. "He's everywhere, and he sees everything."

There was another beat of silence, and Ray already hated where this was leading.

 

"That's how they must feel up there, right?"

 

Ray fought the urge to lurch forwards and snap the prisoner's neck right then and there, so what if he ended up in here too? That bastard would be dead, and the world would thank him for it.

 

"Up there where?" The words sounded strained as they left his throat.

 

But Ryan said nothing. Instead, he exhaled through his nostrils and swiftly turned on the bench, staring at Ray with neutrality on his soft features. "In the CCTV room."

The brown doe eyes that could've been pretty in another life, only looked evil as they flicked down to the security card around Ray's neck.

 

Ray's hand moved to it, fingers curling around it as he debated with himself.

 

He should have known. He should have known Ross would want something from him, but- but would this even stop him threatening him with his children again? Would it even stop him getting into his house? Or would this just keep giving him more and more power, until he was untouchable?

 

Ray stared at the inmate, but Ryan only smiled.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Do you have a spare toothbrush?"

 

Patrick's head snapped over to the disheveled looking man next to him. The dark rings around his eyes were huge, and he looked gaunt and glassy all over.

With a sense of urgency, Patrick shook his head quickly.

"Are you sure?" The man tried again, but Patrick shook his head again, looking away and neglecting to say anything due to the toothbrush in his mouth.

His ears pricked up at a muttered, "Okay, thanks." And the man was gone as soon as he'd arrived.

 

With a long exhale, Patrick spat into the sink, watching the frothy toothpaste wash away as he scrubbed at his mouth with water. He ran the bristles of his toothbrush under the faucet, when Frank- who had been silently flossing beside him until now, spoke up. "You were lucky."

Before Patrick could even ask what he meant, Frank's brow raised amicably. "With the cell." He pulled out a new string of floss, "Some are a lot worse."

 

Patrick nodded silently, drying his toothbrush and packing it away. He didn't even want to imagine what 'worse' meant. "And…" His eyes flitted over to Frank. "Why are you here?"

 

"I ran a business." Frank seemed unfazed and spoke casually, as though they were anywhere else than in _prison_. "Girl bars."

 

From seemingly nowhere, the man with red hair- who he'd learned was named Gerard, after some not-so-subtle asking, clapped a hand on Frank's shoulder and huffed bemusedly.

 

"Patrick, he owned _11_ brothels. Brought a bunch of mail order brides over from Russia."

 

They both laughed quietly as though it was some kind of joke, but Patrick could only bounce his gaze around nervously.

The more he talked to these people, the worse they seemed to get.

 

"Fuck off, meth-head! You're starting to piss me off, Spencer-"

 

Patrick jumped, glancing behind him for a second. One man had shoved another away and was currently laying into him using all kinds of colourful insults. Before Patrick could discern what was actually going on, Frank's laughter turned his head again.

 

" Don't be such a dick,  Gee ."  He glanced over at Patrick again,  nudging him in the shoulder. "Tell you what,  _ Gee's _ got a really interesting story."

 

God. Patrick wasn't sure what he might mean by 'interesting', but regardless, he took the bait. "Gerard? Really?"

 

Frank nodded again, "Yep. He's the smartest guy in this prison." Gerard chuckled at that, lazily brushing his teeth. "In three weeks, he'll be in a five star hotel in Brazil or something." Spitting into the sink, Gerard snorted at that, but Patrick didn't have much time to inquire before Frank was nudging him in the arm again.

 

"Why are you here, Patrick? Robbery, trafficking, prostitution…?"

 

Patrick shook his head quickly, "No, no- I'm here by mistake. Really." Frank looked a little dubious, but Patrick stayed resolute. "I just need a new lawyer, but I can't make a call until Wednesday-"

 

"I can get you one."

 

Patrick froze for a moment, another tsunami of relief crashing into him, almost drowning him as he struggled to speak. "…Really?" Frank nodded again, throwing away his floss, "Yeah, I can get you one by tomorrow."

Patrick stuttered for words for a moment, mouth opening and closing like a fish on dry land. "W-Well, I mean- that'd be amazing- I-"

 

In a split second, Andy had clapped a hand on his shoulder.

 

His blue eyes were serious, and his voice was firmer than Patrick had ever heard it before. "First rule of prison: don't ask for favors." Andy turned to raise a brow at the other tattooed man. "Right, Frank?"

 

Patrick shook his head desperately,  praying Frank wouldn't retract his offer . He needed a lawyer as soon as possible, the sooner he was out, the better. "No- Well, I do! I  _ do _ ask for favors! I-I'm desperate, I-" 

Patrick's breath skipped, and he exhaled shakily, trying to pull himself back from the edge of tears. He was _not_ going to cry in public. Still, his voice was thick with suppressed misery when he finally spoke.

 

"I need to get out of here."

 

After a silent moment, Andy exhaled and shrugged, moving away with a final stare at Frank- who quickly stepped in to pick up the pieces.

Fastening a hand onto Patrick's shoulder, he squeezed it and smiled kindly, voice affirming and saying the exact words Patrick needed to hear.

 

"You'll have your lawyer tomorrow morning."

 

He squeezed Patrick's shoulder again. "I'll get you one."

Patrick nodded, bottom lip trembling and eyes shiny with tears. "Thank you."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

" Night guys."

 

"Night."

 

"G'night."

 

Patrick couldn't bring himself to add to the pleasantries, instead, he kept quiet and curled in on himself further.

The prison somehow felt even colder at night,  and no matter how much to tried to warm up, he just couldn't shake the ice in his bones.

 

 

A few more hours into the night, Patrick was still awake, and he was starting to sniffle softly. Tears were rolling down his cheeks, and no matter how much he tried to control his emotions and his own goddamn eyes, they kept coming.

 

He assumed it was a mixture of the cold, the fear, and the fact that he was in prison.

 

And, just like babies, who burst out crying and screaming when they're too overwhelmed, Patrick found himself sobbing openly after a few moments. So tired he could barely hide his cries, but too troubled to actually sleep, he passively wondered how long it'd take for someone to wake up and yell at him. Or make fun of him.

 

Surprisingly, neither came.

 

Instead, a soft voice from above- that in that moment sounded like a goddamn angel, crept into his ears.

 

"The first night is the worst."

 

Patrick whined, still hiccuping with his sobs, but the voice continued. "You can hear everything in here. _Everything_."

There was an exhale, and Patrick slowly came to be more awake than asleep. He blinked lazily, listening to the voice reel off its list.

 

"Footsteps, doors, toilets flushing, snores…You can hear it all. Get ears like a fucking bat."

 

Patrick had quietened down significantly. He felt a little pathetic, but Gerard seemed to be cutting him some slack, and that only made more warm waves of relief calm him down.

 

"Then you get used to it."

 

Getting used to it. That made it sound like he was going to be in here for a long time.

Patrick didn't like that thought.

 

He writhed restlessly, turning over to his back, before shifting back to his side, and repeating it until he wanted to slap  _ himself _ .

Gerard said nothing however, and for the longest time, Patrick assumed he only listened.  
  
On the twentieth flip onto his left side, Gerard's voice came again in a soft whisper. "Stay calm."

 

Patrick did the exact opposite.

 

He panicked. He shuddered and took fast, ragged breaths, while vainly trying to wrap himself up in his blanket even further, trying to hide himself from the world.

 

"It's okay, Patrick. You're okay."

 

Patrick whimpered, pressing his face into the pillow and trying to calm his hiccuped cries.

If he were Gerard, he would've snapped at Patrick to shut up by now, but the man in the bunk above kept surprising him.

 

"You're allowed to cry, y'know. We all cried the first night here."

 

Patrick only whined again, breathless keens getting louder, before he felt a hand on the back of his head. With a sniff and puffy red eyes, he shifted onto his side to see Gerard's hand hanging down from above.

 

"You can hold my hand if you want. Might help you sleep."

 

Patrick hesitated for a moment, really not wanting to be more of a burden than he was already being. There was a beat of silence, but before long, Gerard splayed his hand out, and whispered again. "I don't mind."

 

Patrick took the offered hand and clung to it a little harder than he'd meant too. "You'll feel calmer. You'll see." Patrick only whimpered in response and nodded. God he felt like an idiot.

He'd probably apologize about all this in the morning, but just for now, Gerard was a godsend.

 

 

 

Sleep wouldn't come easy, and no matter how much Patrick just tried to relax, he kept finding himself staring at different things intently.

First, it'd been the label at the corner of his blanket, and he'd read the washing and drying instructions about fifty times when something a little more interesting caught his eye.

 

There was a small infinity symbol tattooed on Gerard's wrist, and running a thumb over it, he could stop himself before he'd babbled out a question. "The infinite?"

 

Gerard, thankfully, knew what he was talking about. "Nah. It's just an eight. Lucky number in China." Patrick's brow furrowed. Slightly weird, but while he'd never bought into lucky numbers himself, he could understand the logic behind them.

 

"If it works in China, it might work here right?"

Patrick laughed weakly and nodded, "Yeah. Probably."

 

 

 

 

 

Patrick had almost fallen asleep- helped by constant, soft whispers of 'Everything's okay' and 'Stay calm' from Gerard, when a distant voice shook him awake.

 

"Gee."

 

His eyes fluttered open, scanning around the room drearily. His second time looking around, he quickly spotted the figure at the cell bars thanks to his eyes having adjusted to the dark.

As though on unspoken command, the figure pressed himself further forwards, and the moment Patrick saw the orange of his jumpsuit, he froze.

 

"Gerard."

 

So far, he'd only seen one person wearing that colour, and as the figure turned his face towards the dim lights left on over the gangways, Patrick's eyes widened.

It was the same crazy guy from that morning; Patrick had been so thankful he hadn't been put in that cell.

 

"Hey Gee."

 

A biting cold had taken over Patrick as the man at the bars kept calling for Gerard, insistently repeating his name, and even going as far as to shake the bars a little. "Are you asleep?"

 

There was a sigh.

 

"Almost." Gerard grumbled from above him.

 

The prisoner at the gate- 'Ross', the officer had called him, cocked his head. "Let's go smoke in the bathroom."

Gerard sighed, but Ross wasn't about to let it go. "I need it, I had a bad day."

 

Patrick wondered if Gerard would really go with that guy. Were they friends? It seemed so unlikely, so out of place; Gerard was so _nice_ , and Ross seemed anything but.

 

To his surprise though, Gerard slipped away not long after the smoke offer. He climbed out of bed, made his way to the gate and waited for them to open.

 

"I don't have any cigarettes-"

"I do." Ross finished for him, motioning his head and waiting for Gerard to follow him.

 

A split second later they were gone, and as the bars closed with their mechanical scrapes again, Patrick turned onto his other side, faced the wall, and closed his eyes, trying to recapture his sleep.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"The Governor has it in for you, right?"

Pete held in a sigh as he and Josh descended the stairs, their footsteps clanging against the metal steps.

He shrugged, shining his flashlight on the ground as they reached the bottom and paced along concrete. "I guess so."

Pete saw Josh shake his head in his peripherals, "You and Jon have to smooth things over."

 

You know, for someone so young, Josh sounded suspiciously like his middle-aged mom sometimes.

 

"Just let anything he says go in one ear and out the other, just forget him."

 

Pete sighed. Heavily.

 

He knew he should really patch things up with Walker, but goddamn did that guy make it hard to do.

 

Noting Pete's silence, Josh shook his head again. "You shouldn't take the bait. It's not worth it, Pete."

Pete said nothing, and in response, Josh nudged him in the ribs and stared at him seriously. "Promise me."

  
With a slight chuckle at Josh's endearing nagging, he nodded lazily. "Alright alright, I won't take the bait again."

 

They took a shortcut via a dimly lit, narrow hallway with pipes running along the length of the wall, and it wasn't long before Josh tutted and started up again.

 

"What's your problem with rules, dude?"

 

Josh was still talking, but Pete had begun to let it all drown out into white noise as he walked…Until Josh jabbed him in the shoulder. "I'm literally the only colleague you talk to-"

Pete rolled his eyes. "That's not true, I talk to Toro too."

"Well- my point is, you're on bad terms with everyone else- It's not normal, alright?"

Pete only shrugged. And Josh exhaled, impossibly exasperated. "Say something, Jesus Christ-"

 

"Why is the laundry door open?"

 

Stopping dead in his tracks, Pete's eyes were locked on the laundry room door. It was ajar, and the hallway beyond was lit up by the fluorescent lights on the ceiling; That was wrong, they always shut that door at night- _all_ doors were shut at night. Cell gates could open, so could bathrooms, but not the laundry.

Josh said nothing and only followed as Pete surged forwards, flashlight beam pointed forwards and brow furrowed.

 

The door pushed open with a squeak, and Pete quickly called out, scanning the hallway. "Hello?" They kept walking, their footsteps being the only sounds in the dim place. "Is anybody there?"

 

It seemed empty, but the moment they rounded the corner, both men stopped dead in their tracks.

 

There, at the dead end of the laundry room, was an inmate.

 

He was sat on a plastic chair, facing the industrial washers and dryers, and his back turned to the officers.

Pete shone his flashlight on the man, noting the dyed hair. "Hey! How'd you get in here?" He and Josh moved forwards, steps thudding at the same time as they approached the still man.

"You'll get solitary for this." Pete lectured, but the man didn't move an inch.

 

They rounded him, turning to see-

 

Josh gasped, stumbling backwards with wide eyes and quickly paling skin.

 

"Shit." Pete hissed, scanning his flashlight over the man- or, _corpse_.

 

"Fuck- F-fuck-" Whimpered Josh, from where he'd backed up against the washing machine. Flashlight lowering weakly, Josh's voice was queasy as he tore his eyes away from the body, and looked at Pete instead.

  
"But-" His breathing was heavy, laboring to even escape his lungs through a mix of disgust and horror. "What did they _do_ to him?"

Pete said nothing, mostly because he didn't know the answer. But it seemed to be the exact opposite of what Josh wanted to hear. "His eyes are white, Pete-"

His voice cut away into a harsh retch that made Pete turn, grab his friend by the arm and shepherd him away from the sight. "Don't look. C'mon."

 

Facing the wall instead of the motionless body, Pete pulled his walkie talkie to his mouth. "Malkinson close the cells. We have a problem."

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Laura, sorry for waking you, but-"

 

"It's fine, what do you want, Dun?"

 

Josh swallowed thickly, glancing back at the body on the white chair before muttering back into the walkie talkie and speaking to the Governor timidly. "Alright, well, I-I think you need to get down here. Something serious happened."

 

 

 

 

 

 

"I take it, he didn't die of natural causes." Pete shoved his hands into his pockets, watching Doctor Reynolds check the body in silence.

The greying doctor shone his small flashlight into the inmates's eyes, cocked his head from side to side, checked for a pulse, and finally, had the courtesy to answer Pete's question- but not without a drawl that was a little too sarcastic for his liking. "Of course not."

 

"Oh my god."

Pete glanced up to see Ray, quickly rounding the body and staring at it with wide eyes. Everyone had had that reaction so far. For the longest time, the man stood in silence, staring at the corpse on the chair.

 

It was like a car crash; Horrific, disgusting, but somehow, it was impossible to look away.

 

With a shaky exhale, Toro glanced over at the doctor, shaking his head slightly in disbelief. "Why is he _pink_?"

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Governor stared down at the corpse with a shaky hand over her mouth. Her reaction had been the worst by far; Strings of curses, heavy breathing, a glassy, petrified look in her eyes- it was obvious this was affecting her the worst.

 

Things like this always had different effects on different people; Even if people tried to predict how they'd act beforehand, you could never really know what you'd do until you were _there_. Face-to-face with it all.

 

"It's alright, calm down." Reynolds glanced back at her for a second, before turning back to keep shining his flashlight- only, over the pink blotches that covered the prisoner's skin like a plague.

 

 

 

People came and went that night. Slowly, everyone's wide, shocked eyes turned dull and tired. The doctor made his conclusions, people asked questions that nobody would know the answers to yet, and eventually, everyone was ordered out by the police- who had arrived in thirty minutes, with one ambulance in a sea of police cars.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Smoking wasn't good for you, Pete knew that already. But, he was pretty sure finding a mutilated corpse warranted at least _one_ cigarette.

He took one last drag, squinting out at the night from where he'd been pacing around in the watchtower.

 

Things weren't silent and peaceful for long; The sirens began ringing, deafening and eerie and ordering the inmates to wake up.

 

With a heavy exhale, Pete flicked the burnt out cigarette to the ground, grinding into the floor with his sole. Despite what people might think, finding dead people stashed away around the prison wasn't normal in this line of work. And even when you'd find a body, they'd be dead thanks to a fight, or a stabbing, not by…scalding?

 

Pete wasn't sure how that man had died. He'd never seen anything like it. And, if it hadn't been completely necessary, he would've preferred not to know.

 

With a sigh and a shake of his head, Pete turned, moving to trail back inside the building.

Alas, he _would_ find out how that man died. He'd be one of the first to know. The perks of the job, he supposed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Patrick hadn't slept that night.

He'd almost been able to get some rest when he'd been holding Gerard's hand, but, after he'd left with Ross, Patrick had tossed and turned all night.

 

The sirens had made him jump when they'd suddenly switched on, blaring through the cell blocks and announcing the start of the day.

Already being awake, getting out of bed hadn't been too much of an issue.

 

Patrick was buttoning up his jumpsuit, when he noticed something odd, however.

He cocked his head at the bunk above his own, noticing that it was decidedly empty.

 

Huh. Gerard wasn't there, and the bed looked untouched.

 

Looking down to focus on his buttons, Patrick shrugged to himself lightly; Gerard was probably in the bathroom, or, maybe he'd been caught wandering around after lights out by an officer and was being questioned or something.

 

Suddenly, heavy, fast footsteps shot towards the cell, stopping dead moments after.

Patrick's head jerked up, and he quickly spotted an officer at the bars. He looked a little rough around the edges; Stitches on his eyebrow, a band aid over the bridge of his nose, maybe it had been from breaking up a riot.

 

The officer stopped, squinted and presumably ran a headcount before nodding. "Okay, count's fine. You can have a shower."

  
The count was fine? But- Gerard was gone. There were only three of them in a cell that should've been full, was the officer in need of new glasses or something? Did he have a concussion from those injuries?

 

Andy seemed to notice the same thing, tilting his head at the officer on the other side of the bars and furrowing his brow. "Correct? Gerard's missing."

The officer didn't even acknowledge the words, and instead, moved away to the next cell.

 

Brow still knitted, Andy glanced back at Frank. "Where's Gerard?"

With a look Patrick couldn't quite pinpoint on Frank's face, the man only shrugged lightly, going back to tucking his bed sheets under the mattress.

 

"I saw him leave last night." Patrick said quietly, turning to make his bed- and to avoid any questioning or doubtful looks from Andy and Frank. "With that- that guy in the orange jumpsuit."

 

"Which one?" Andy's words were quick, and Patrick glanced back briefly with a shrug.

 

'Which one?' Did that mean there was more than one guy dressed in orange running around?

 

"The one in orange, I don't know-"

 

"What did he look like?" Frank had stopped making his bed, his undivided attention was on Patrick now.

Patrick shrugged again, a little more irritability this time; He didn't have a photographic memory, how the hell was he supposed to give them a full description?

 

The other two stared at him expectantly, and the silence was getting irritating, so, racking his brains, Patrick got to his feet and sighed. "I don't know- brown hair, brown eyes, kinda pale-"

"Ryan Ross?" Frank finished, voice lilted with surprise and eyes a little wider. Patrick resisted the urge to shrug a third time, and instead nodded wordlessly.

Frank and Andy shared a dark glance, one that inexplicably made Patrick's chest tighten a little. His intuition wasn't terrible, and he could tell something was definitely off.

He stared between both men; They knew something he didn't.

 

Brushing off the subject- and the stare from Patrick, Frank shook his head, and grabbed a change of clothes. "Alright, to the showers."

 

Oh right, the showers. One of the places Patrick was determined to avoid in this hellhole.

 

Sitting back down and curling back into his bunk, Patrick shook his head. "I'm not feeling great. I'm just gonna stay here."

Andy huffed bemusedly, "Dude, this is prison, nobody feels great here."

  
Patrick kept quiet, dropping the side of his face into his pillow with a thud and watching Frank leave the cell.

Andy hung back, however.

Once Frank was gone, he looked back at Patrick, eyes holding that same serious glimmer he'd seen in the bathrooms yesterday.

 

"Be _very_ careful with what you say around here."

 

Patrick raised an eyebrow. He'd only been trying to help when he mentioned Ryan, but the moment he opened his mouth to protest, Andy spoke again. "Or you'll end up being a maid. And trust me, you do not want that."

A maid. Sounded inconspicuous enough, but seeing as this was prison…it was probably something twisted.

 

Hesitantly, but admittedly a little curious, Patrick sat up. "What's a maid?"

 

Andy sighed, eyes softening and full of pity. "A maid is someone who didn't repay a favor in time. Or someone who ratted out a powerful person."

 

Patrick froze.

 

He'd asked for a favor. He'd asked Frank for a favor. But- Frank wouldn't do that to him, right? Frank was cool, he wouldn't do that to him.

  
Patrick repeated that to himself, trying his best to convince himself that it was true. But, another part of him wasn't so sure; He and Frank weren't exactly best buds, and there was a possibility that there was a side to him that Patrick hadn't seen yet.

 

Andy crooked his neck, looking down at Patrick and raising his brow. "Look- if you ask for a favor, pay it back as soon as possible. Alright?"

  
Patrick nodded softly, Adam's apple bobbing nervously. Fuck. He'd asked for a favor, not repaying that favor would have consequences, and now, it felt like a weight on his shoulders, like a shadow hanging over his head.

Andy stared at him for a moment, before shaking his head and tapping Patrick on the shoulder. "Let's go."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_The knock at the door was one Patrick knew well._

 

_It was firm, solid, and hammered into the wood twice. So, when Patrick moved over to unlock the door and pull it open, he already knew who would be on the other side._

 

_And there she was, just as he'd expected._

 

_Elisa was the first girl that had ever paid any attention to him. Patrick didn't know why she stuck around, or what she even saw in him, but god he was the luckiest man on Earth._

_She was almost a cliché; Beautiful, funny, kind, and so goddamn smart. It hadn't taken Patrick long to fall head-over-heels for her, but despite the way his heart sped up a little whenever he saw her, he had to remember something very, very important:_

 

_He was mad at her._

 

_She looked a little more timid than usual as she stood there, one hand carrying her handbag, and the other fidgeting through her curly hair. There were rain droplets on her coat, and she looked cold. Patrick almost stepped aside immediately, but reminding himself that yes, he was mad at her- he stayed put._

_The hand mussing her brown hair dropped as soon as she saw Patrick, and a soft smile took the place of the worried expression on her face before. "Can I…?"_

_Patrick was almost tempted to say no and close the door on her, but if he was a sucker for anyone, he was a sucker for Elisa._

 

_He nodded, stepped aside, and her into his apartment. Her smile flashed into a grin for a moment, before she became a little nervous again._

_Crossing one arm loosely, and looking up at Patrick with shiny doe eyes, she spoke softly._

 

_"I left him."_

 

_Patrick almost couldn't believe it._

_She'd left him? She'd chosen Patrick over him?_

_He stood there in silence, face blank and thoughts fighting each other to the death._

 

_Firstly, Patrick felt like a homewrecker._

_Destroying a four year long, serious relationship was never something he pictured himself doing- even if it was unintentional. He hadn't known, but it didn't stop the guilt eating him alive after he found out._

 

_Then came the gigantic wave of 'No fucking way'._

_There was no way she would've chosen Patrick- a socially awkward, anxiety-ridden nerd, over her rich, and apparently very suave boyfriend- or, ex-boyfriend now, he supposed._

 

_If she was telling the truth._

 

_That disbelief lead into doubt. No, no- she'd lied to him once before; She'd assured him she was single when they'd started dating, and then one day, she'd slipped up and mentioned her surprise-boyfriend._

_What if this was just a repeat? She like having him around, and was just getting his hopes up while carrying on with the over guy while his back was turned. Well, Patrick wouldn't fall for it again. This was unhealthy, the lies, the secrets; Fuck, he loved her, she was the best thing in his life, but-_

 

_Gently, Elisa's hands slid onto his face, and she leaned up slightly, kissing him like she'd read his mind. And of course, Patrick melted._

_Every logical thought in his brain ebbed away, and all that was left was her. And he wouldn't have wanted it any other way._

 

_When she pulled away, she stayed there, resting her forehead on his and smiling. "You're thinking again."_

 

_Yes, Patrick had a tendency to worry, but he was pretty sure he was well justified this time-_

 

_"It's over," She pulled back, staring Patrick in the eyes and running her thumbs over his cheekbones, before kissing him again, and muttering soft words against his cheek. "I promise."_

 

_Patrick hadn't really needed to hear that, he'd been done for a long time ago._

 

_Exhaling deeply, Patrick retaliated, one hand moving to her waist and the other to the back of her head._

_He wanted to stay there forever. Kissing Elisa like it was the only thing keeping him alive, the way she tasted, the way she felt, the warmth of her hands- all while he was getting soaked by the rain on her coat. It was perfect. It was everything he wanted. The only thing he wanted._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Hurry up."

  
That familiar voice pulled Patrick out of his daze.

  
He glanced over his shoulder, eyes flashing a little wider as he saw none other than Ryan Ross, snatching his shirt from that shaky looking tall man who had been praying in the cell yesterday.

 

"You're so _useless_ sometimes, Dallon." Ryan sighed, taking his jumpsuit from the man and pulling it on with a shake of his head.

The man winced from the insult alone, shoulders hunching and eyes twitching nervously.

 

"What are you looking at?"

 

Patrick's head snapped to his side, jumping in surprise as he came face-to-face with the other man from that miserable cell; Blond hair, dark eyes, sharp features, and staring at Patrick a little mockingly.

Patrick shrugged and shook his head, lowering his eyes and busying himself with filing through his change of clothes.

 

The blond moved away, but before Patrick could breathe a sigh of relief, he stopped beside Ryan.

To his horror, the man leaned into Ryan's ear, whispering a few words before turning his head to stare at Patrick blankly.

Patrick ignored it, ducking his head away and pulling off his shirt. He still wasn't too happy about the 'showers' situation, but he couldn't just _not_ shower, right?

 

Ryan still hadn't said anything- neither had the blond guy, but before they even moved a muscle towards him, a voice cut off the silence.

 

"Ryan."

 

Assuming the man would be distracted, Patrick subtly glanced back again.

 

A large man had waltzed up to Ryan, hands in his pockets and head tilted. "What about mine?" Ryan didn't miss a beat before extending a hand, "Give it here."

Almost automatically, the man handed over something Patrick couldn't see, but rustled like paper. Money. It had be money, right?

 

Ryan gestured his head over at the tall man, and ordered: "You. Go."

The large man crossed his arms and smiled, his grin only widening as the shaky man shook his head with wide eyes.

"No, please- I don't want to, I can't- Ryan, don't." Nobody answered him, the other men simply stared at him like he was a bug running around on the floor.

The tall man's pleads of 'Don't make me' and 'Ryan don't' had devolved into sobs by the time Ryan lost his patience.

 

" _Please_ , _please_ , _don't_ -" He mocked, before staring darkly and nodding over at the large man again. "Fucking go already."

The man's eyes were red and puffy as, what Patrick supposed was the 'client', grabbed him by the arm and hauled him away.

 

The blond leaning on the benches behind Ryan scoffed, spitting out the nickname like venom. "Come on, _Jesus_. It's not that bad!"

 

By the time Patrick slipped away to the showers- towel firmly covering him up, thank you very much- Ryan and the blond were chatting quietly, and thankfully no longer staring at him.

 

Swallowing thickly, Patrick kept his eyes down and stepped under a shower head- but not before hooking his towel around it to keep it from getting _completely_ soaked.

Patrick shut his eyes to slits, keeping his eyes lowered and running his hands through his hair. The water felt more like hail, to be truthful, but oddly enough the steady sound of the droplets hitting the tiles was almost soothing. Patrick was almost, _very nearly_ almost, calming dow-

 

"Hey. Xanax-guy right?"

 

Patrick's eyes snapped open, instantly spotting-

His brow furrowed, he knew this guy. He knew this guy from somewhere; Short curly hair, blue eyes, he could've sworn he'd seen this guy before-

His eyes widened as he realized. It was the inmate that had been behind the counter yesterday morning…But for the life of him, he couldn't remember the man's name.

 

How had he forgotten this shit? It had _literally_ been yesterday.

 

Realizing that he hadn't answered the guy's question, and had just been staring at him while making various facial expressions, Patrick stuttered out an answer. "Y-Yeah that's me."

Patrick shrugged lightly, trying to play his almost cringy awkwardness off, before adding: "Hi." as an afterthought.

 

The man nodded slowly, "I'm Joe. Everyone calls me 'Trohman', though."

Trohman. That was it.

Patrick made a mental note to _fucking remember that name_ , before nodding back and giving a tiny smile. "I'm Patrick. Patrick Stump."

 

"Nice to meet you, dude." Joe nodded again. Patrick had a feeling their necks were gonna be aching after this conversation, but not being able to stop his serial nodding spree, he bobbed his head again. "Nice to meet you too."

 

They stood in silence for a moment, Patrick busying himself with rubbing cheap smelling soap into his hair, before Joe's voice chimed up again. "How many years did you get?"

Instantly, Patrick shook his head. "I'm still waiting for trial." Joe raised an eyebrow. Patrick needed to get better at lying.

 

"Seven years."

 

Joe flashed a grimace, shaking his head as he washed his hair. "Ouch." Patrick could help a pitiful: "Yeah."

The silence came quickly again, but the longer Patrick stood under the shower, the more he seemed to realize something he'd almost forgotten; He was in a prison shower, with a bunch of naked guys. Now, when the realization fully kicked in, Patrick panicked. Quietly.

 

He wasn't sure where to look, but when he squinted over at the exit, he realized- to his horror, that the exit was blocked by what looked to be the beginnings of a fight.

 

Patrick buried his head again, hissing to himself. " _God fucking damn it_ -"

 

"Ignoring dicks becomes automatic at some point, don't worry about it." Patrick glanced up to see Joe looking sympathetic. Okay, so, apparently he was a mind reader.

Patrick shrugged lightly, sighing quietly and shaking his head again. "It's just- I guess…" He squinted and grimaced. "Thing is I'm straight."

 

Instantly, Patrick recoiled at his own goddamn words. That was the worst fucking excuse he'd ever made-

 

"Everybody's straight here." Joe huffed bemusedly, before his eyes twitched to the left and he shrugged. "Well, _not_ everybody- You get what I mean."

Understanding what the man meant, Patrick nodded, but that didn't mean it comforted him much.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pete was almost tired of looking at this goddamn corpse.

He leant on the wall, arms crossed and brow furrowed as he watched the crime scene photographers nosily snap pictures of it. They'd set up tape as well; Striped blue and white, reading 'Crime Scene' and separating the odd dead body from the rest of the normal world.

 

Pete's eyes flickered over to the lead detective. Rob Dupre. He should've known.

 

Pete knew him, he could probably pick him out in a crowd of thousands.

The bald spot on the back of his head was a dead giveaway when he'd first entered the room, and since then, the man had made a point of ignoring him.

Back when Pete was under his jurisdiction, he may not have been the best cop, that was true- but there was still no need to be _rude_.

 

Pete wasn't sure if it was the body's fault, or just the _situation's_ fault, but he was feeling extra emotional- and extra petulant today.  
  
He stood there, feet planted and arms crossed as he made a point of burning a hole into the back of Dupre's head.

 

He wasn't feeling it, apparently.

 

Fed up with the entire situation, Pete exhaled heavily and moved over to Dupre lazily, moving to stand beside him as he crossed his arms once again.

The man's eyes flicked his way. Pete smiled, he'd already won.

 

With a quiet sigh, the chief turned to him, brow raised as he clapped a firm hand on Pete's shoulder before he spoke with a voice as rough as gravel.

 

"How are you, son?"

 

Pete shrugged lightly, "Decent. Considering the circumstances." The man's hand dropped away and he made a non-committal noise, looking back over at the photographers. "Well, everyone misses you at the station, Wentz."

Pete ducked his head, smile a little broader, and a little sadder. But, even though it still stung a little, he knew leaving had been the right choice.

 

"I've got a new assistant." His eyes flicked over to the man- or, _kid_ seemed to be more appropriate, pacing around in the corner nervously.

"He couldn't find a goddamn clue if there was an arrow pointing to it- I tell ya, the _state_ of these rookies- honestly Wentz. It's shocking."

 

At that, the kid in the corner raised his head with a squint. "Why don't you go fuck yourself, Dupre."

Pete tried to hide his chuckle, and the chief only smiled as his assistant went back to his meticulous pacing. He nudged Pete, brow raised and the ghost of a laugh behind his voice. "He reminds me of you."

Pete didn't bother hiding his laugh that time, but as the words ended and as they remembered where they were, things grew much more serious again.

 

Pete's eyes scanned over the corpse. It hadn't been touched since the night before, and it still sat where Pete and Josh had found it; Upright, with its hands hanging by its sides.

With a glance at Dupre, Pete lowered his voice. "…What can you tell me about the guy?"

 

Dupre was silent for a moment, but a second later he raised his brow, eyes still stuck on the body.

 

"They cooked him."

 

Pete froze, everything suddenly feeling much colder than before. His voice was higher than usual when he final spoke again, eyes wide at the chief. "They _cooked_ him?"

 

With an exhale, Dupre moved over to a table that was piled a garment steamer and plastic laundry hampers.

"With steam."

He picked up the garment steamer, pulling the trigger and watching the boiling steam fire from the end in a stream until placed it back down. "194 Degrees. Fahrenheit."

 

Pete simply stared, completely lost for words. Cooked alive with steam…? _That's_ how the man died? No wonder Pete had never seen another body like it, that was fucking insane- and, ruthless and cruel and-

 

Then again, this was a high security prison. People didn't get sent here for stealing sweets.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

One more new observation about this place: The food was terrible.

Obviously this was prison, and Patrick hadn't been expecting Le Cordon Bleu, but the sludge on his tray looked practically inedible. Not to mention the stale bread. And the milk that smelt sour.

 

With a polite smile he gave out of manners to the dead-eyed woman behind the counter, Patrick made his way towards the tables.

This felt a little like a repetition of high school; No friends meant nowhere to sit, so all Patrick needed was an empty place to hide away, pretend to eat this disgusting food, and then leave.

 

"I'll do whatever the fuck I want!"

 

The first table he walked past was on the verge of breaking out into a fight. The men sat around it leaned over and glared at each other, some yelling at the top of their lungs and others trying to defuse it all.

 

"Fucking- Just leave me alone, you-"

 

"What's wrong with you? You're gonna puss out-"

 

"Don't fucking touch me. Don't you dare fucking touch me-"

 

"Calm down, calm down-"

 

Patrick ducked past that table quickly, rounding it and scanning the large room for an empty bench when someone called out to him.

 

"Hey you, come here. Come sit next to me."

The man stared at him with eyes that seemed to _scream_ 'crazy', so making his excuses with quiet strings of 'No thanks' and 'Sorry, I have to go', Patrick walked in the opposite direction _very_ quickly.

 

He finally slid into a bench that was half empty, and dropped his tray on the metal surface. He stared down at it dejectedly. On top of the sludgy, sour and stale mess, as though to add insult to injury, all cutlery was plastic.

He understood, of course, dangerous criminals couldn't be handed actual knives and forks- but god if it wasn't patronizing.

 

Patrick gave it a try, he really did. He poked at the sludge with his fork for a good five minutes before he decided to pass.

It looked like dog food, in fact, Patrick would probably rather eat dog f-

 

"You have to eat it."

 

The sigh came from above him, and Patrick glanced up to see a prison officer. He was a little familiar too- Wait. Think. He had to think. He couldn't keep forgetting people like this.

Dark hair, dark eyes, tanned skin-

 

The man raised an eyebrow, eyes flicking back down to the tray expectantly.

"Oh-" Patrick looked down at it too, instantly feeling his stomach turn at the sight. And _smell_. "I'm not really hungry."

The officer sighed quietly, eyes almost rolling as Patrick kept making his excuses.

"I'm not on a hunger strike, or anything, I just- I'm not feeling great and I- I'm just not that hungry."

 

The officer- who looked extremely tired, exhaled through his nostrils and leaned his head forwards. "I know it's gross, alright? And you're allowed to throw it up later if you want, but you have eat it." He paused, eyes stuck on Patrick's. "It's compulsory."

 

Fuck it, Patrick couldn't start arguing with an officer now.

 

With a dejected, miserable look in his eyes, he shoved a forkful of the- oh god, why did it taste like fake pineapple?

He looked up at the man again, who stood there with exhaustion and expecting on his face, and tried not to spit it back out.

Patrick swallowed thickly, not being able to stop himself shuddering before burying his face in his hands. This place fucking sucked, oh god, Patrick needed to get out-

 

When he heard footsteps, Patrick peeked past the gaps of his fingers. The guy was walking away, but as Patrick watched him get further away, he suddenly remembered something made him call out to the officer. "Excuse me?!"

 

The man stopped, turned and trudged back towards him, before raising an eyebrow in a silent question.

"I made a friend yesterday. Well-" Patrick shrugged, " _'A friend'_. But, anyway- his name's Gerard, and uh…"

The officer's eyes widened a little, as well as glassing over.

Deciding to ignore it, Patrick cocked his head a little, squinting up at the man and trying again. "He wasn't there this morning, and I was just wondering if- if he was okay, or- if he got punished or something?"

 

The man's eyes flickered down towards the floor, silent for a few moments. Patrick could practically see the gears turning in his head, but with every second of silence, he was getting more worried.

 

The officer's eyes were still lowered as he spoke. "I'm afraid, your friend- _Gerard_ -" He corrected himself, with a nod of his head. He looked at Patrick directly. "Has…passed away."

Patrick didn't even freeze, it was like his brain couldn't process it. He shook his head in disbelief, leaning forwards to stare at the officer. "What do you mean 'passed away'?"

 

The man said nothing.

 

"What…?" Patrick tried again, the realization suddenly starting to sink in. "W-Was it an accident, or-?"

"They're investigating." The officer glanced around the room, and then leant down towards Patrick, one hand planted on the table. "By the way, did you see him leaving your cell last night?"

 

Before Patrick even had time to process the question, there was a clatter of a tray against the metal table, and half of the food on it spilt over the side.

 

"Shit! Sorry about that- Morning, Officer Wentz." Looking up at the officer with a smile, Ryan swiftly sat down opposite Patrick, making the man lean back.

 

'Wentz' spared Patrick a glance, before moving away without a word.

Patrick did his best to not turn and watch him leave. He had half a mind to run over to him and tell him everything, but, on the other hand…

 

He looked up at Ryan. The man wasn't even looking back, and a few moments later, the orange-clad man left, still in complete and utter silence.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Patrick stared down at the garden planter. It was made of wood, full of loose soil, and in the middle of it all stood a label reading '02321/Way, Gerard'.

It wasn't there for long however, as before too long an officer walked up, tugged it out, and stuck a new one- reading '02643/Stump, Patrick', in.

 

Gerard was dead now. And Patrick had been given his place, as though he hadn't mattered, or even existed. His stuff had been taken away too; The shelf beside his bed was empty, and his life had fit into a cardboard box.

Every trace of him would be wiped out by tomorrow- bar, from everyone's memories.

Patrick wrapped his hands around the sides of the planter and sighed deeply, eyes closing tightly.

 

"What's wrong, dude?"

 

It was Andy. That voice was too distinct for Patrick to _not_ recognize.

He opened his eyes but didn't bother raising his head, and instead only shrugged weakly. "They told me Gerard…passed away."

 

Saying 'dead' out loud felt too harsh.

 

Andy exhaled softly, but nodded firmly, saying nothing else as he checked the tiny plants that were poking out of the soil.

Patrick looked over at him, voice a little timid but curious. "How did he die, Andy?"

 

"There are only three ways to die in prison." The man didn't look up at Patrick as he spoke, keeping his eyes on the planter instead. He straightened up, obviously struggling through the conversation.

Patrick supposed Andy had known Gerard for a while, that probably made all of this a million times worse for him. And for Frank too, now that he thought about it.

Patrick was about to hazard a 'What are they?', but Andy finished his thought firmly and quickly.

 

"Illness, suicide, or murder."

 

Lovely.

 

Chewing on the inside of his cheek, Patrick stayed silent, and to his surprise, Andy didn't stop there. "A lot of people in here wanted Gerard dead."

Patrick's brow knitted; Gerard didn't seem like the type to cause trouble. He glanced up at Andy, "Why?"

Turning to look at him, Andy raised an eyebrow. "Do you know why Gerard was in here?" Patrick shook his head quickly. "No."

The other man nodded, looking back down at the plants. "Robbery."

 

Robbery. That could either be a string of stores or a bank heist, and Patrick was almost morbidly intrigued to find out which one.

 

"Gerard and his brother, Mikey, bought two written-off cars from some scrap dealer. And they burned them on a road where an armored truck, carrying nine million dollars was gonna pass by."

 

Patrick cocked his head, one eyebrow raised as he completely forgot about the seed packet in his hand.

Andy exhaled gently, seemingly in admiration. "It was the perfect plan." He shrugged dismissively. "Anyone can go into a bank with a gun and a stocking on his head-"

 

So, not a bank heist then.

 

"-but what they did…" Andy gave a low whistle, shaking his head with that same air of _admiration_ rather than condemnation. "The guards found a fatal accident and two victims. A man covered in blood, carrying another, dying man, calling for help, desperate."

  
So far, burning two cars just seemed like a huge waste of money.

 

"Then," Andy looked up at Patrick, a small, proud smile on his face. "Mikey pulled a gun on them."

 

"Shit."

 

"Uh huh." Andy nodded again, his smile broadening as he leaned over the planter. "They made them open the door, held them at gunpoint, and took the 9 million."

 

"So…" Patrick was still staring, hands frozen over the soil. it felt like he was listening to some twisted- and intensely interesting bedtime story. "What happened?"

 

"Well, they had the money…" Andy trailed off for a moment, but quickly regained his line of thought. "But they also had two police cars after them."

 

"And, they got caught, right?"

 

Andy chuckled, "They kept them entertained for a _real_ long time first." He nodded fondly, eyes glossing over as though he was picturing it all. "The chase lasted 39 minutes, but…"

He went quiet for a moment, but as soon as he turned at saw Patrick's waiting stare, he shrugged and spoke again. "But it ended with a shooting."

 

Patrick was on the edge of his fucking seat.

 

"They killed _a cop_?" Patrick whispered, leaning towards Andy with a spike of shock going through him, but the other man only shook his head. "No one killed anybody."

 

He turned to Patrick, "But they shot Mikey. In the arm. Almost hit a major artery- he almost died, actually. He hasn't been the same since, apparently." Andy glanced up again, a tight scowl on his face. "Once they got in here, he distanced himself from Gerard- blamed him for getting caught. He hangs out with Ross now."

 

Patrick stopped himself gasping. Gerard's brother hung out with _Ross_? Was he that blond guy from that morning? Patrick could _not_ see the family resemblance.

 

"But anyway- when they caught them, there was no trace of the money. They'd buried it somewhere."

Patrick- being glared at by an officer and suddenly remembering that he was supposed to be planting seeds, got to work, but not without another question for Andy. "They didn't find the money?"

Andy shook his head with a heavy sigh. "He took it to the grave. They searched for ages though." A small smile worked its way back onto Andy's face, "He was smarter than the cops, than the dogs. Smarter than the detectives- smarter than anyone."

 

"And that's it?"

 

Andy shrugged, "I guess so. Although-" He glanced up at Patrick, eyes a little brighter than they were before. "He told me that he'd switched his SIM card, y'know- when he realized they were gonna get caught. Swallowed the old one."

He shrugged again. "Probably nothing though- but, everyone thinks he kept it in here. Yeah right. They searched the cell every fortnight anyway."

 

Patrick nodded, and exhaled softly as they fell back into silence.

He pawed through the soil, making the holes to drop the seeds into- before he got yelled at for being lazy.

Frank hadn't been lying when he said Gerard's story was interesting; Outsmarting police, stealing millions of dollars- it was like something out of a movie.

Patrick tore open the tomato seed packet, tossing a few into each burrow without much care when he saw something glinting in the light.

 

He put the packet down and leaned over the planter, tugging at the offending glint- that he quickly realized was coming from a piece of plastic.

Looking around and checking nobody was watching him, Patrick tugged it out to see a tiny, blue plastic bag.

  
Loud footsteps- that he quickly saw belonged to a very angry officer, made him shove the bag back into the soil and go back to filling the holes with seeds.  
He was preparing himself for a scolding- and on looking innocent, but instead of yelling at him, the officer glared and moved away once again.

 

Patrick sighed heavily, hands still deep in the soil. Better get to work, if there was one thing he wanted to avoid, it was getting screamed at in front of everyone else.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed! (I also hope this was decent lol)


	2. Pop Your White Collars Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! This took me a while, but I managed to get it done in my free time, so I really hope it was worth the wait! Enjoy! :)

 

To put it mildly, the lawyer sucked.

 

Well, he didn't _suck_ , but it wasn't like he'd helped. At all.

 

He'd started off normally, doing typical lawyer-ish things like flipping through reports, reading papers, and using words Patrick was pretty sure didn't exist.

 

"Well, I skimmed through your case, and, as I'm sure you know, you're charged with four crimes, and are to be imprisoned for seven years."

 

The lawyer's tone was fact-like, and fear instantly flared through Patrick like an allergic reaction.

Patrick exhaled quickly, "No, but- I'm innocent, you have to get me out of here."

  
The man had leaned back in his chair, squinting. "Patrick, I need you to tell me how you got into this situation."

Patrick resisted the urge to bury his face in his hands. He wasn't even sure how it'd all happened, it had been so fast and so out of his control- god, he hadn't even processed right it at the time.

 

 

 

_"Yes, well I- No, I don't know what I'm going to- Alright. Alright, I'll talk to you later."_

 

_Patrick watched Elisa end the call and toss her phone back onto the nightstand._

_She shuffled back into bed, turning towards him in silence and staring at nothing in particular._

 

_"Something wrong?"_

 

_Elisa raised a hand in defeat, "The company is splitting. Our stocks are finished." She took one look at the confusion on Patrick's face before smiling sadly and repeating it in layman's terms. "We're gonna lose all our money."_

_Patrick made a quiet noise of realization, still watching Elisa as she sighed and turned onto her back, eyes fixed on the ceiling. "They're gonna clean us out, but-"_

_She gave an aborted shrug before moving back towards Patrick, curling up beside him and speaking softly as she linked their fingers. "It doesn't matter. I'll start again from scratch."_

 

_From scratch? They'd have to build it up from scratch? All over again?_

 

_Patrick wasn't well versed in business, but- it just seemed so unfair._

_Elisa looked up at him, eyes wide and sad before she flashed a smile and kissed him on the cheek. "It's okay. Really."_

 

_That just convinced Patrick that it wasn't._

 

_"Is there no way around it?"_

_Elisa peeked up at him again, but Patrick only shrugged and continued. Admittedly he didn't know anything about this field, half of what he was saying may have been complete bullshit, but- he just wanted to help. "It just- It doesn't sound fair."_

_"What?"_

_"I mean-" Patrick leant up to look at her properly, head cocked and brow pulled down. "You- and all those other people, you guys spent so many years working so hard- You shouldn't just lose it all because of…"_

_At Elisa's confused look, Patrick slowly trailed off. Yeah, probably sounded like a Grade A, naive idiot-_

 

_"Well, what am I supposed to do-"_

_"I don't know, Elisa, I'm just saying-"_

_Elisa's eyes suddenly flashed brilliantly, and she leant up whilst looking like she was having a Eureka moment. "Wait, no- you're right."_

 

_"Right."_

 

_"No, really- I could change asset ownership." Her voice bounced with excitement and pure glee, a huge open beam on her face. "I could change asset ownership, and- and they could never even touch it!"_

_"Really?"_

_"Yes!" Grin still bright, Elisa flopped back down and pressed her face into Patrick's shoulder. "You're really smart sometimes, y'know that?"_

 

 

 

"Patrick?"

 

The lawyer was staring at him, looking a little more doubtful after Patrick's bout of silence, but the inmate could only lean forwards. "You'll get me out of here, right? M-Maybe they could, reduce my bail o-or, a pardon, or-"

"A pardon…?" One of the lawyer's brows was raised, words dripping with sarcasm. He huffed bemusedly before shaking his head and lowering his eyes to the reports on the metal table.

 

"You're charged with fraud, concealment of assets, money laundering and theft. Two _million_ dollars. You understand that, right?"

 

Patrick's teeth clamped down on his tongue, breath hitching helplessly. God, the fucked up part was that he hadn't even realized he'd been doing that shit. He should've paid more attention in Economics.

The lawyer chuckled lightly, throwing up his hands helplessly. "You're honestly lucky your bail isn't twice as high."

 

"Look- sir." Feeling slightly like he was drowning, Patrick leant forwards again, eyes prickling and breathless voice bordering on desperate. "I'm telling you I'm innocent, I swear to god I'm innocent-"

 

"That doesn't matter, Patrick." The lawyer cocked his head. "Do you have a million dollars, or not?"

 

Patrick sniffed quietly, and shook his head, breathing quick and brain aching and heavy. "No." He wiped at his right eye with his sleeve, "No, I don't have a million dollars. I have nothing."

Patrick could taste iron from where his teeth had broken through the skin on the inside of his cheek, but still, he shook his head roughly once more, chest rising and falling erratically. "My house, my bank account, even my fucking dog- everything I have is gone. Okay? It's all gone."

"Well, if you don't have the money…" The lawyer leant back in his chair, throwing up his hands devastatingly slowly before crossing his arms. Patrick could already feel his breathing getting even more uneven as the reality of things settled in.

 

"I'm afraid you'll have to stay in prison."

 

 

 

 

 

"Yes, all right. No, no problem at all. Ye- Yes, that's fine, darling. Alright, I love you too, bye- bye.

The doctor put his phone down and seemed to finally remember Patrick existed. "Sorry about that."

 

Patrick shook his head quickly, flashing a tight smile as the doctor offered him a handshake. "I'm Dr. Reynolds. I'm the head of the medical staff here."

It was odd but, that handshake, that polite introduction, it was the first time Patrick had felt like he was more than a criminal.

It was just like the introductions he'd been giving all his life, and talking to the doctor, he felt calmer than he had in a while- it made his lungs relax a little, taking a seat back from where they'd been beating to keep him breathing.

 

Shaking the man's hand, Patrick's smile broadened a little despite how miserable he felt. "I'm Patrick Stump. Nice to meet you." With a nod, Reynolds drew his hand back, sat up straight, and folded his hands on the desk. "So, what did you need?"

"I uh- Well, earlier, I got really dizzy, and I couldn't breathe properly." Patrick held back the urge to shrug- seeing as it wasn't exactly _polite_. "I calmed down eventually, but I'd prefer to avoid it, in future, if possible."

He trailed off quietly, but quickly picking up where the younger man had left off, Reynolds cocked his head a little.

 

"Did you feel pressure on your chest? Or, around your ribs?"

 

Patrick nodded quickly, "Yeah- I still do, a little." The doctor nodded slowly, but didn't miss a beat with his diagnosis. "Sounds like anxiety symptoms. Have you ever suffered from anxiety before?"

Again, Patrick bobbed his head fervently. "Yes, I have. I was medicated for it."

"Well, I'll need to check your breathing." The doctor gestured a hand towards the examination table at the side of the small office, "Just sit over and take your shirt off, I'll be right there."

 

While Patrick would've preferred Doctor Reynolds to just _throw_ Xanax at him, he stood and moved over to the table while the older man busied himself with his computer screen.

 

"Let's see…Patrick Stump, cell 225." Patrick glanced up from where he'd been distracting himself with undoing buttons, furrowing his brow over at the doctor who was reading from his screen. "Imprisoned for fraud, concealment of assets, and theft."

 

Hiding a look of shame, Patrick ducked his head as he finally tugged his shirt off- keeping it down when the doctor's voice and footsteps approached him.

 

"Well, I'll just have a listen of your lungs, alright?" Seemingly not treating him any differently despite his crimes, Reynolds smiled warmly again, readying his stethoscope and pressing the chest piece to the space between Patrick's collarbones. "Inhale. Through your mouth, please."

 

Keeping his head down, Patrick complied, and what felt like a split second later, the doctor was pulling back with a nod. "Good. Your lungs are fine."

He hooked the stethoscope back around his neck, adjusting his glasses as they'd slipped down the bridge of his nose. "But, your pulse is a little quick for my liking, so-" He turned away, moving back over the tall medicine cabinets at the other side of the room. "I'll give you a tranquilizer."

 

A tranquilizer? The doctor was gonna knock him out? Was that really necessary?

Patrick had just been hoping for a few pills he could use to calm him down, but tranquilizing him like an animal or something just seemed like overkill.

 

But, no. No, Patrick had to trust Doctor Reynolds. He'd been friendly enough so far, and besides, he was the professional here; Patrick was no doctor.

So, Patrick nodded and bit his tongue despite his doubts, only looking up at the man when he threw a question his way.

 

"Are you allergic to any medications?" He called back, rifling through bottles, packets and boxes that rustled against each other.

"No." Patrick chimed up quickly, but the doctor only hummed, moving back over with an unopened syringe and a bottle. "Ever had any trouble with injections?"

 

Uh…no? Patrick didn't _like_ injections exactly, but who did?

The second answer was a little more hesitant, especially as Patrick watched the doctor prepare the syringe with practised precision. "No, not really, it's fine."

 

With a smile, Reynolds moved back over to Patrick fully, standing in front of him and supplying orders that were simple enough to follow such as: 'Hold your arm out', 'Close your fist', and 'Don't tense up'.

Even then, Patrick still couldn't watch, and made a point of looking away and trying not to hiss as he needle poked into his vein.

 

"There we go. All done." A moment later, Doctor Reynolds was moving away, smile still in place as he disposed of the used syringe. He took a moment to glance back at Patrick, "Lie down, you'll be asleep in a few minutes."

 

Patrick's eyes bulged a little.

Right here? He'd just pass out in here? Patrick had assumed he'd have to run back to his cell before dropping unconscious in the middle of a hallway, but-

 

"Go on, it's alright."

 

Patrick nodded jerkily in silence, and with a few awkward flicks of his eyes over to the doctor, he lay down.

Curling up into a ball and turning until his back was towards Reynolds, Patrick sighed, feeling his motor skills getting a little more sluggish as he rubbed at his eye. "You can count on me for whatever you need, Patrick."  
  
The words seemed a little out of place, but Patrick only nodded slowly again and slurred a 'thank you' as his eyes pulled closed.

 

"If you need a change of lawyer, a new medical report, privileges- etcetera, etcetera."

 

Patrick didn't know why the offers were being made, but it was comforting nonetheless.

Having someone with a little authority on his side could never hurt, right?

And the doctor was nice enough, might as well take the help; Patrick wouldn't win anything by being stubborn here. "Thank you." He slurred again, words even less coherent this time.

 

"You're welcome."

 

Patrick weakly nodded again, as a haze filled his head. His limbs loosened, his mind blanked, and his eyes twitched softly under his eyelids, leaving him as useless as a rag doll lying on the table.

His senses went last, and they stuck around for just long enough for Patrick to vaguely register a hand carding through his hair.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Gerard Way."

 

The Governor dropped the files on the table, looking around sternly at the group of employees.

"Three weeks left before release." She added with a scorned growl, before settling in her seat at the head of the table, back as straight as an arrow.

 

The employees stared back at her in silence.

 

Among the petty officers, watchmen and Doctor Reynolds, were Ray Toro, Josh Dun and Pete Wentz. The three in charge of Cell Block 2 yesterday, and whether they liked it or not, the three that had had a hand in the prisoner's death.

It was a tricky situation- Fuck, none of them even had a motive.

 

Ray never caused any trouble for her; He checked in, did his job, and left. In and out in silence, no drama, no conflict. He was who she suspected least.

Dun was so young, that the Governor found it hard to believe he'd be behind something this malicious. He seemed pretty naive, and, well meaning for the most part.

And that left Pete.

Pete, the officer that got in trouble with co-workers and inmates alike almost weekly…and yet, he would never do something like this. Despite his faults and how stubborn he was, he had a good set of morals, murder- especially a murder that brutal, wouldn't be something he'd condone.

 

But despite all her logic and all her prejudices towards the people in front of her, Laura had to remember something vital: One of them had been watching the cameras last night, and one of them had missed- or purposefully ignored Gerard leaving his cell with his killer. And she had to find out which one it'd been.

 

Leaning back in her chair a little, she knitted her brow tightly, scanning each man's face again. "I'll be blunt: Who the fuck was watching the CCTV last night?"

 

The answer was slow, but almost automatic.

Josh guilty raised his hand, not quite being able to look her in the eyes. With a small gulp, he glanced at Pete instead. "Pete and I were in the control room until 12am. Then we- we did the rounds, and we found the…" Josh gestured with his hand, finishing his thought without uttering another word.

His dark eyes flicked up to the Governor. "That's all."

 

The woman stared back. "That man was murdered while you were watching the monitors, and ' _that's_ _all_ '?"

 

"No, _I_ was watching the monitors."

 

They all looked over at Ray. Sat at the end of the table and looking up at the Governor firmly, he shrugged. "I didn't see anything odd."

Laura didn't even have the time to open her mouth again, before Pete had leant forwards with a tilted head and a hard squint. "My question is: How was that man taking a fucking stroll at _1 in the morning_ , Governor?"

 

"Pete, let's not stray from the subject, alright?" Doctor Reynolds drawled from where he sat beside the boss, but Pete was quick to shake his head.

"No, I'm not straying from the subject." He looked around at his co-workers.

"Why are the cells open at night? It's stupid." Pete said matter-of-factly, "I mean, are we forgetting these are criminals? Or- Or, are we pretending this is a college dorm? Or a sleepover? Come on, I mean-"

 

 

"National guidelines advise controlled free movement-"

 

"Well, we're not doing too great on the 'controlled' front, m'am."

 

The Governor exhaled sharply, ignoring the jabs at her authority.

They needed to work together, if they started arguing amongst themselves this would only happen again.

She just needed to convince them- or rather, Pete. She just needed to make him see that the rules she'd established were the right ones. She couldn't have a mutiny right now, it would be chaos. "We have the lowest suicide rate in the state. And- it's not like we can lock them up 20 hours a day. We'll end up with cells full of insane-"

 

Pete rolled his eyes. "Do you think you're prison-Gandhi or something-"

 

"No!" Barked the Governor, slamming her hands on the table and leaning forwards. clearly agitated.

Pete just _had_ to keep pushing her, had to _ke_ _ep_ questioning her authority. Why was he like this? And since when had employees had the fucking _gall_ to speak to their bosses like that?

 

Her eyes flicked around the table, and she almost shrank back in on herself when she noticed the looks on the peoples' faces; Bemusement, irritation, anger. She was losing them.

She looked back at Pete. He was completely calm.

 

No, no- he wasn't going to make himself the bigger person here, that was _her_ job. Leaning back in her seat, she exhaled curtly. She had to stay calm.

Looking up at her irreverent employee, she shook her head. "I believe we can do things in a different way. A better way."

 

"If you think playing violin music over the speakers is gonna turn them all into gentlemen, then you have no fucking clue what is actually going on in there-"

 

"DIGNITY. I'M TRYING TO GIVE THEM SOME FUCKING DIGNITY-"

She'd lost it. Trying to convince the man with a discussion was like talking to a brick wall.

 

And on cue, Pete stared her straight in the eye. "Then you'd better start trying to protect them from themselves, because like it or not, they're not Ivy League students- they're thieves, they're rapists and they're murderers. They're not to be trusted."

 

There was a beat of silence, but the moment Pete went to speak again, the Governor's face blanked seriously, and she spoke in a disconcertingly calm voice. "Don't ever tell me what to do again."

 

"Please, let's just…We're not going to find a solution by arguing all day." Doctor Reynolds, "Can we focus on this? Work together?" The room quietened down, a last few glares being shot across the table.

 

With a steady exhale, the Governor nodded, settling back down in her seat silently.

 

A few moments of silence later, Ray tried to talk first- and obviously tried to make sure the conversation stuck to facts over opinions. "What happened to the footage?"

The Governor shook her head quickly. "It's gone. Someone put magnets on the hard drives." She glanced around at the others who, in turn, were sending concerned looks at each other. "It was deliberate. The police are investigating."

 

Magnets on the hard drives meant one of two things: 1. Someone was working with the prisoners, or 2. Somehow, a prisoner had gotten into the CCTV room.

Neither was good news.

 

Just then, Jon spoke up, stating the unspoken obvious. "But, only officers can get into the control room."

The Governor was quick with a scowl on her face, "Well, that makes one of us an accessory to the crime."

 

There was more silence after that. Some people ducked their heads, others looked frozen, and some looked suspicious.

Then the Governor lifted her head towards Pete, keeping her voice steady and her emotions out of it. "Pete, what did the autopsy say?"

 

Pete chewed on the inside of his cheek, that had become quite ragged since last night. "He was cooked at 194 Fahrenheit with a clothes steamer."

The Governor's face blanked, eyes glinting with horror, as though she was just now realizing the kind of people that were stuck behind those cells. Pete seemed to take a little satisfaction at that.

 

Josh shuddered from beside him, shaking his head and looking a little queasy. "Why would anyone do that?"

"To torture him." Pete's answer was quick and brutal, eliciting eyes squeezed closed, hands over faces, and shaking heads all around the table.

He'd managed to distance himself from it since yesterday, God knows he'd seen the body enough to no longer be phased.

"But, the question now is:" Pete leaned his head to the side, making a point of looking at every person in the room. "Did he talk?"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Patrick practically crashed back into his cell, keeping his eyes glued to the floor as he stumbled to his bunk. He dropped down onto the edge, head drooping and eyes lidded as he sat there looking like a zombie.

 

Andy watched him with a furrowed brow, concern creeping over his features. "Are you okay?" Patrick said nothing, and Andy's concern kicked up a notch into 'worry'. "Dude- You look pale."

 

Patrick shook his head slowly, speaking like all the soul had been drained out of him. "I need to sleep."

Frank spoke up before Patrick could even slump down to the mattress, a small smirk tinting his words. "Do you want a joint?"

 

The other man said nothing, and only kept staring down at the concrete floor.

 

There was something wrong with Patrick, but before Andy could try to get him to speak again, Frank waltzed over and took a seat next to him.

"Seriously, anything you need I can get." Patrick looked at Frank blearily, as well as looking slightly hopeful.

The tattooed man pinched Patrick's cheek, taking advantage of the fact that Patrick was too sluggish to notice it or react straight away. "And if you want a job when you get out of here, I could make 10,000 off of that face in like, a _month_ -"

 

"Frank, leave him alone." Andy sighed, giving the other man a stern look that only received an eye roll and a 'just kidding'.

Neither Frank or Patrick moved though, and taking even more advantage of how out of it Patrick was, Frank cocked his head at the blond. "How'd things go with the lawyer?"

 

Patrick sighed deeply and exhausted before slurring out an answer. "He can't help me."

 

"Ah, I'm sorry." Frank made a noise of pity, before putting his hand on the back of Patrick's head firmly. "But uh…I still did you that favour, y'know. It wasn't easy."

Patrick nodded sluggishly, not fully registering what Frank had said- or the hand on the back of his head. "Thank you."

 

"…You're welcome, but, you know what you could do for me? To pay it back?"

 

Patrick only blinked like he'd looked into a bright light, again, too out of it to know what he'd be agreeing too.

"Frank, leave him alone." Andy warned again, but the dark haired man gave him an equally firm look. "He needs to repay the favour, Andy. That's how it works in here, remember?"

 

Andy didn't take his eyes off them as Frank smiled at Patrick again, hand moving to the back of his neck instead. "Tonight, at nine o'clock, I need you to go to the courtyard, okay?"

Patrick froze for a moment, brow knitted as he slowly took it in before giving a snail-paced nod. Frank smiled again, squeezing his hand to get the blond's attention again. "Someone will give you something and then you just bring it to me, okay?"

 

Patrick, who was seemingly sobering up from whatever had left him in such a state, stared at Frank with a lopsided head. "But…it's closed at nine, I can't-"

 

"It's okay, that'll be taken care of." Frank grinned, quickly reassuring the man. "You just have to-"

 

"What are they gonna give me?"

 

Frank shrugged and made an ambiguous noise. " _Something_." But through sheer will, Patrick pulled through his haze, shaking his head roughly. "What- 'Something', no- what is it? And- And who's gonna give it to-"

 

"Don't ask so many questions." There was still a smile on Frank's face, out of synch and place with his words and the grip of his hand.

In a flash, Frank had stood, fetched a book from his bunk, and had moved to stand in front of Patrick, making sure to block out Andy's stare, that was bordering on protective.

 

"Here." He opened the book and shifted the paper cover, pulling out a key card from under it. He handed it to Patrick, "Use this to open the courtyard door, okay?"

 

Patrick blinked for a moment, seemingly uncertain. Frank crouched down, eyes boring into Patrick's and pressing the card into Patrick's hand. "Then come straight back."

Suddenly, Patrick jerked away from it as though it had burned him, eyes suddenly wide and lucid as his stupor finally bit the dust. "No- No, I can't do that."

 

Frank's smile wilted, and indignation took its place.

But the moment Patrick shook his head again and chimed another 'No', trying to move away- Frank pressed a hand into his collarbones, pinning him still.

 

"Yes." Frank stared, eyes burning and hand bruising down on Patrick's bones. "Yes you will. And d'you wanna know why-"

 

"Get off him, Frank, I swear to-" Andy dragged Frank back and to his feet roughly, but the man shrugged away with a shout of: "No! No- I did him a fucking favour, and listen, listen-"

Frank leaned down to Patrick again, fisting a hand into his shirt and staring at him with feral eyes.

 

"You're gonna do it because _I_ can tell Ryan that _you_ said that he came for Gerard last night."

 

Patrick froze, shaking his head wildly. "No- no, b-but, I didn't say anything-"

"Frank-"

"Shut up." Frank glanced back over his shoulder, eyes wild and bright as he stared back at Andy for a moment.

 

Eyes boring into Patrick's again, he pulled the other man closer, lowering his voice menacingly.

"And you know what Ryan does to snitches?"

Slowly, Frank leaned towards Patrick's ear, growling his words deliberately. "He kills them."

 

Patrick was shivering and had tears in his eyes when Frank finally let him go. The man tossed the security card his way, before moving back to his bunk with a fake smile and a cheery line of: "You'll do great!"

So, Patrick stared down at the security card in his hands, more terrified than he'd ever been before in his life.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"The prisoners already know about Gerard." Josh chewed on his lip nervously, glancing back at Ray before training his eyes back on the security monitors.

He tried another quick glance to his side this time, spotting Pete; He was quiet, tired and stared at the monitors deeply too. "It's all they're talking about."

 

Things were uneventful for a long while, all three men sitting in silence and watching the screens.

Usually, they'd be chatting to each other, telling each other about their days, or about how their families were doing, or about a prisoner that had stuck out to them that particular day- usually for being suspicious or just plain weird.

 

But, after the 'meeting', and Josh used that word lightly, everyone had been quiet.

 

The thought of a traitor, the thought of this happening again- the thought of the criminal not being brought to justice…it was hard to swallow, and yet, it seemed that's where the whole situation was headed.

It would all be hidden and covered up, and soon, no one would remember the grizzly murder in the laundry room.

 

Suddenly- shattering the fragile silence in the room, Pete's eyes dropped into a squint and he lurched forwards, "Look at 10."

Josh nodded quickly, hands flying to the controls. He zoomed in and played the footage back, and, to a sinking feeling in their stomachs-

 

"There."

" _Shit_."

 

The footage showed the canteen. It was packed, but on the tenth screen, there stood a huddle of prisoners. Their faces were neutral, but as the three officers glued their eyes to the inmates' hands- one prisoner handed a shiv to another.

 

"I'll go." Ray said immediately. Pete nodded, eyes still on the screen. "We'll be watching. I'll call you if anything happens."

 

Ray nodded from behind them, disappearing through the CCTV room door with a start.

Josh almost stumbled back on his chair, eyes wide as he stared after Ray, calling out with a warble of worry to his voice; A prisoner with a shiv was never good news. "Be careful!"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Patrick chewed half-heartedly at the piece of stale bread in his hand.

 

Since being 'tranquilized' earlier that day- oh, and not to mention being threatened into being a drug mule by Frank, Patrick hadn't been feeling great.

 

It was his second day in prison and he was already caught up in so much shit, Patrick wasn't quite sure how he'd managed it. Maybe he should've just listened to Andy; Thinking anyone would do him a favour out of decency had been too much to hope for, he supposed.

 

"Are you okay?"

 

Patrick blinked drearily for a moment, before looking up at Joe. The man sat beside him, brow raised and head tilted.

 

Joe had made a habit of sticking with Patrick during meals, and honestly, Patrick was grateful. The conversation was just distracting enough for Patrick to ignore the taste of the food on his tray.

He was still for a moment, but eventually shook his head glumly, bottom lip twitching as the words Frank had growled at him earlier echoed through his head again.

 

Oh god, it wasn't like he could refuse but- but, he was gonna get in so much trouble when he got caught. And he was definitely going to get caught, there was no way he was smart or dexterous enough to pull off smuggling drugs-

 

"Inspection- Everybody stand up!"

 

The words cut through the canteen like a knife through butter, and- not without a lot of groaning and muttered insults, all the inmates stood. "Nobody move. Put your hands on your head, and get into single file."

 

Hurrying to his feet, Patrick stood up straight and kept silent, but he couldn't stop his gaze scanning the room. Nobody else seemed to be taking this that seriously, but everyone obliged nonetheless.

Patrick shuffled into the line of prisoners and linked his hands behind his head, still not being able to stop his curiosity making his eyes wander.

 

They all stood with their backs to the service counters, watching as five officers- led by Chief Toro, surged towards them purposefully. They split at the last moment, Toro taking a place in front of them all while the lesser officers began searching.

 

"If any of you have a weapon," Toro glared around, obviously irked by something and more agitated than usual. "you'll go to solitary confinement. Immediately.""

 

A weapon? They were searching for weapons?

Patrick exhaled deeply, assuring himself that- no, he didn't have a knife or something, that'd be-

 

"Any contraband will also get you a _very_ long stay in solitary, I can promise you that."

 

Patrick froze, heart lurching against his ribs and his breath hitching in his throat.

 

There was a security card in his pocket. There was a, _very likely_ , fucking _stolen_ security card in his pocket.

Patrick felt lightheaded and panicky all at the same time, overwhelmed with the urge to both cry and run for his life.

 

There was a scoff from further down the line, and Patrick leant his head forwards to see an officer searching Gerard's brother with a face like thunder.

Mikey watched the man bemusedly and sighed, "I don't have anything, you're just wasting your time."

 

"Shut up and turn around."

 

Mikey snorted, "I've been behaving so well lately, I swear-" The officer stifled a growl and shoved him by the shoulder, turning him around and searching him again, before seemingly finding nothing.

The man moved away with a glare at the blond and more than a bit of hesitation, but quickly busied himself with the next inmate.

 

Patrick's eyes shuddered closed for a moment. Oh god- oh god, they were gonna find the card, he was gonna get sent to solitary, Frank was gonna _kill_ him-

 

"What's wrong?"

 

The voice was Joe's and the words were a hissed whisper. "You don't have a shiv, right?"

Keeping his eyes closed and swallowing thickly, Patrick shook his head. "Worse."

 

Joe gaped, making a choked scoff and hunching his shoulders up. "What- Are you hiding a fucking flamethrower up your ass or something-"

 

"I have a key card." Patrick spat out quickly. "For opening doors-"

"I know what key cards are for, Patrick." Joe instantly snapped, before his expression slowly sobered. His eyes widened as he realized Patrick hadn't been joking. "And didn't you look so _fucking_ innocent-"

 

"I _am_ innocent."

"Says the dude with a security card in his pocket." Joe whispered with a knitted brow.

 

Patrick's eyes clenched closed, but Joe only shook his head in disbelief. "How'd you even get it?" He was staring at Patrick again, eyes glittering in something vaguely like admiration. Joe was giving him too much credit.

Patrick's Adam's apple bobbed, and he shook his head subtly. "I can't say."

 

Joe sighed heavily, but to Patrick's surprise, the man seemed more than willing to help. "Patrick, listen to me."

 

Holding back a petrified whine, Patrick bit his bottom lip and nodded, squinting over at Joe cautiously.

The other man whispered firmly. "On the count of three, get rid of it." Patrick blinked, bewildered. How the fuck was he supposed to do that? No- what was Joe even going to do?

 

"What?"

 

"One."

 

The officer closest to them shoved another prisoner away, moving onto the man on Joe's other side.

 

"Two."

 

Another inmate shoved away, and before Patrick had even had more than three seconds to ready himself, the officer moved to Joe.

 

The moment the man laid a hand on him, Joe jerked back with a hard scowl on his face. "What are you doing, huh? What are you touching, motherfucker?"

 

Everything else went by in a blur, going by so quickly Patrick was frozen in place- not fully believing what was playing out in front of him.  
  
Joe had shoved the officer back with a grunt, yelling out incomprehensible insults as another three prison guards ran towards him.

 

All order dissolved in a split second.

The rest of the inmates dispersed from the rows, all moving to stand on the benches and watch the 'show'. Some had even decided it was the right time to try punching the officers they disliked most.

 

There was a loud thud- one of the officers had hit Joe over the head, and in a jolt to his system, Patrick remembered what he was supposed to be doing.

 

His hand shot into his pocket. He hastily grabbed the key card and- without a second thought, plunged it into one of the food trays that was filled to the brim with stale rice.

When Patrick turned back towards the scene, Joe had already been dragged out of the canteen, and Toro was raising his voice against the noise.

 

"SILENCE! EVERYONE GET BACK IN LINE!"

 

Hands shot up behind heads, and in uncharacteristic silence, the inmates shuffled back into their lines quickly.

Then, a voice called out, indignant and shocked from behind Patrick's shoulder. "Chief!"

 

Chief Toro turned, eyes narrowed and firm. The mini riot had done nothing to help his mood, apparently. " _What_?"

 

"What the fuck is this doing here?"

 

Patrick glanced over his shoulder, heart stopping at what he saw.

The woman behind the counter was holding up a yellow card, reading the prison's name, and covered in grains of rice.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The sound of ringing was driving him insane.

Patrick's head was bowed, the phone pressed to his ear, and a migraine was pulsing in his temple as he chewed on the inside of his cheek.

 

He'd finally been given clearance to call his parents, and the moment he'd been told he had the go ahead, he'd almost sprinted over to the phone booths.  
  
He'd decided to call his mom first. It was surprising how much he missed her voice.

 

Usually, she always picked up- she had a habit of carrying her phone around with her everywhere, always ready for a call from one of her three prodigal children.

 

But today, it seemed as though she'd chosen to throw her phone into the Atlantic ocean.

 

He'd called five fucking times, and there had been no answer.

He would've been worried if he hadn't been so pissed off. Or if there hadn't been a line of angry-looking prisoners behind him waiting for a free phone booth.

 

"Why won't you answer, fuck-"

 

"Hello?"

 

Patrick bit his tongue, and slowly answered her, relieved at both hearing his mom's voice and being so grateful she'd finally picked up."Uh…Hi, mom."  
On the other end, she sounded just as relieved to hear him as he was to hear her. "Patrick, sweetheart- how are you?"

 

Terrible.

 

But it wasn't like Patrick could _say_ terrible.

Instead, he exhaled quietly, leaning forwards into the phone booth and closing his eyes. "Do you have a minute?"

 

"Go on." His mother's voice dropped from happy to worried in a split second. Patrick gave a watery smile, she'd always been ready to jump into action for her kids on a moment's notice.

 

Okay, Patrick wasn't the best with words, but he did know he couldn't just say 'Hey mom, I'm in prison'. He couldn't formally explain things to her either, with a stiff upper lip and a blank line like: 'I regret to inform you that I've been incarcerated, mother'.

 

So instead, Patrick tried to start at the beginning.

 

"Do you remember when they put a dead mouse in my backpack? I-In second grade?" He didn't even give his mom a chance to answer, clenching his eyes shut and soldiering ahead, all while trying not to start sobbing into the phone, emotions gripping his heart like a vice.

 

So instead, Patrick tried to laugh. It sounded painfully fake. "And…do you remember when they used to stick chewing gum in my hair?"

 

"Of course I remember, sweetheart, it was awful-"

 

"Do you remember…" Patrick's fake, jovial voice dropped into a wavering sniff. God- he had to hold it together, he couldn't lose it now. "Do you remember that you always got angry, because I never told you about it?"

 

"Yes- but, Patrick, what's wrong? That was a long time ago- Did something happen? Are you okay?"

 

"Mom, I-" Patrick felt a tear rolling down his cheek, but he batted it away with his sleeve stubbornly and sniffed deeply. "I used to do that, because- because I hated worrying you, y'know?"

 

"Patrick, you're scaring me. Why are you bringing this up- Are you okay? Tell me you're okay-"

 

"And, over time, I got used to _not_ telling you everything." Patrick ignored his mom's worried questions, and let his eyes fall open. "I only told you the nice parts."

Like a wave crashing into him, Patrick gave a sob; His waterlogged eyes snapped open, his voice became thick with misery, and he struggled through his words.

With nothing but misery, he shook his head, another harsh sob escaping him. "But there's nothing nice left to tell you, mom."

 

Patrick hunched into the phone booth, covering his face with his free hand and finally letting himself cry into the phone. "I'm sorry, mom. I-I'm so, so sorry- I fucked up, I fucked everything up, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry-"

 

When his mom was silent on the other end of the phone, Patrick sobered up with a shuddering inhale.

Fuck, he'd lost it- "Mom?" Patrick gulped nervously, croaking out his words through a raw throat. "You still there?"

 

"Yes, of course- But, Patrick, you're scaring me. Please tell me what's happening- Did something happen to you?"

 

Patrick ducked his head again, breathing deeply and being mindful to keep his lungs steady. "Mom…I'm in prison."

 

There was no answer.

 

What felt like ten minutes, but was probably seconds, crept by.

Patrick chewed on his lip, eyes squeezing closed and knuckles whitening as he gripped the phone. "Mom, say something. _P_ _lease_."

 

There was only silence, but Patrick couldn't help himself as he kept hiccuping out pleads, mingled with confessions. "I fell in love with a girl, and- and, she tricked me. I-"

 

"We'll get you a lawyer, Patrick. A good one- I promise, I promise you- _oh god_ , baby-"

 

 

 

_"He'll be our lawyer."_

_Elisa leant over to him, eyes angelic and smile even more so._

_Her hands squeezed his, and Patrick did the best to ignore the sharp-looking, slightly intimidating lawyer behind the desk._

 

_Everything about this was confusing and terrifying and necessary all at once. He didn't understand half of the terms Elisa would fling at him, but on the other hand, he knew that- if you cut through all the pretense, this was the only thing that could save Elisa's job._

 

_No, not just her job. It was so much more than her job. It was her life's work._

 

_"Just stay calm. Trust me, okay?" Elisa squeezed his hands again, big eyes searching for Patrick's and trying to calm him down. He wondered if he really looked that much like a fish out of water._

 

_"Could…Could you explain it to me, again? If you don't mind?" Patrick felt pathetic, but Elisa only faltered for a second before nodding with a kind smile on her face._

_She leant towards him, keeping her eyes and hands linked with his. "In the preliminary hearing, I'll take the blame for embezzling the money."_

 

 

 

"You were tricked, sweetheart- We'll appeal. We can- We'll get you out, I promise-"

 

 

 

_The explanation was tricky, but Patrick had tried to take in as much of it as he could. He knew how frustrating he must be to deal with, and he couldn't have been more relieved that Elisa had been willing to take the time and try again._

_With a nod Patrick returned,_ _Elisa turned back to the lawyer across from them, eyes sparkling with that sharp wit Patrick adored about her. "_ _Let's get started_ _."_

_The lawyer only nodded._

 

 

 

"No, mom- you don't understand-"

 

"Where's the girl who tricked you? Who is she? Tell me, Patrick."

 

"Mom- no. No." Patrick sniffed, wiping his nose on his sleeve carelessly. "I got seven years, mom. Seven years. Four crimes- I committed _four_ crimes-"

 

"We'll explain- You'll explain it all, sweetheart. The judge will _listen_ to you-"

 

 

 

_"The transfer has already been made." Elisa smiled warmly, stacking the bundles of notes into the safe._

 

_Elisa's office was more impressive than Patrick had first expected it to be; He'd underestimated her even now, she got better and better by the second.  
_

 

_"This 200,000- raise it to 1,800,000-" She muttered to herself, counting numbers and making figures that were beyond Patrick's understanding._

_She finally closed the safe, locked it, and moved around the desk._

 

_"Patrick?"_

 

_Patrick glanced up from where he'd been idly staring at the carpet pattern._

_She grinned gleefully, nothing but sheer joy in her eyes. Patrick felt his heart flutter. "Thank you."_

 

 

 

"You were tricked- You can explain it to them!"

Patrick's voice was hoarse and defeated as he shook his head. "No, mom."

He shook his head again, a dark cloud thundering over his it. He felt broken already. And he felt so fucking stupid he just wanted to hit himself until he bled. "I won't be able to explain it- I'll _never_ be able to explain it."

 

 

 

_"_ _Hello?"_

 

_"Patrick. I need your help."_

 

_"Wha-"_

 

_"I'm in the car park. But I need you to bring me the money from the safe."_

 

_Patrick froze where he stood, glancing around the sparsely populated_ _building_ _lobby with a look of bewilderment on his face. "Now?"_

 

 

 

"I made _illicit transactions_." Patrick could only parrot the few words he'd heard the judge and prosecutor say at trial.

It wasn't like he'd understood much of it at first, but after hearing it so many times, he'd managed to string it all together.

 

And yet, he still wasn't sure how Elisa had tricked him into it- all while smiling like an angel.

Of course, he wasn't as naive as he might appear; She'd been using him, plain and simple. He wouldn't be surprised if she'd gone back to her old boyfriend now.

 

It hurt like a bitch.

 

 

 

_"It'll be easier this way."_

_"What do you mean, Elisa?" Patrick shook his head furiously, but he was still walking back towards her office. He trusted her, he'd always follow her orders- knowingly or not. "I don't understand-"_

 

 

 

"I embezzled the company, mom." Patrick exhaled shakily, turning to lean against the blunt metal edge of the booth. His mom was stuck between disbelief, silence, and desperate assurances that he'd be out soon.

Shaking his head, Patrick rubbed at his eyes. "I finished it."

 

 

 

_"Put it in a bag and get it down here, alright?" Elisa's voice was the only thing he was focusing on as he soldiered into the office, it was the only thing that had given him the bravery to waltz past security like he worked there._

 

 

 

"I took the money." Patrick ached all over. His brain was exhausted, his body felt weak, and his spirit felt crushed.

And know that his mom- and soon enough, his dad, would know everything…it only made him feel more like a failure, even more worthless than he'd felt before.

 

 

 

_"_ _Pat?"_

 

_He'd always hated that nickname, but he couldn't hate it when she said it. He tolerated it for her, and in turn, she'd make it sound better._

 

_Patrick paused at the safe, waiting for another instruction or for a change in heart. He was half-hoping she'd tell him to leave the money, to come back down to the car park and to just go home together._

_Things were getting complicated, and Patrick knew a lot of money was involved- and, bottom line: It scared him._

 

_"I love you."_

 

_Patrick held back a sigh, and mumbled the words back. Of course, he'd have to go through with this until the end. He wasn't getting out of this, this was just how life was._

_So, with his hesitation and logical thought drowned out, Patrick pushed into the room and did as he was told._

 

 

 

"Two million dollars, mom." Patrick croaked, eyes watering and nose runny again. "Two million dollars just fucking disappeared." His emotions were all over the place, jumping from polar opposites in seconds.

 

He chewed on his lip, sniffing quietly and rubbing at his eyes again. "They proved I stole them."

 

 

 

_With an urgency that played his heart like a drum, Patrick scooped the money out of the safe. He moved like a machine, picking up three bundles and tossing them all into the empty black bag he'd taken from the trash bin._

_This was the right thing. He was doing the right thing. The system wasn't fair- they were just leveling the playing field._

 

_So why was he so scared?_

 

 

 

"My fingerprints were everywhere, mom." Looking back on it now, Patrick knew that he should've worn gloves when he'd been handling that money. But of course, now he also knew _exactly_ why Elisa hadn't told him to wear any.

 

 

 

_He was doing this for Elisa. For her. He had to make this work, he had to do this so that she wouldn't lose her life's work. He had to, he loved her too much to just let her lose it all._

_With a trash bag full of notes and a shake to his step, Patrick rushed out of the room and made a beeline to the car park. It was done. After this, everything would be okay. It was all gonna work out._

_They had a plan- and a plan Elisa had made was damn sure to be flawless._

 

 

 

"But- how could _you_ steal two million dollars, Patrick?"

Patrick understood her surprise.

He was pathetic- he had been for most of his life, and pathetic people didn't go around committing white collar crime. That required intelligence, and connections, and confidence, and…everything Patrick didn't have.

 

"You're so sweet a-and, you're _such_ a good person, Patrick. And- god, anyone could tell that just by _looking_ at you-"

 

Patrick's eyes finally felt dry.

 

"No, mom. I'm not."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"How did the prisoners get something like this?"

 

"I don't know, Governor." Ray answered sheepishly. He'd been searching the inmates for weapons, not for fucking security cards-

 

"You don't _know_?" The Governor's voice raised in angry alarm, eyes firm but hands shaky. "If prisoners can get key cards and delete security tapes, how the fuck am I supposed to run this prison?"

 

Ray's head only ducked a little. He was bracing himself until the berating was over, seemingly.

The Governor's eyes narrowed. No, he had to understand the gravity of this situation. He had to understand.

 

"This is your job, Toro." The Governor kept her eyes glued on the man. She pointed at the guilty key card, sitting on the wooden table. "And _this_ means you're not doing it right."

 

The man said nothing, only letting his head fall a little more. He looked like he'd rather be anywhere else.

 

"Ray." She tried again, a little more softly this time. Laura leant forwards, eyes wide and pleading.

Something felt off. It felt like the man knew something- it was all affecting him more than she'd expected it to.

 

"Ray, what's wrong?" The chief said nothing. "Do you need a few weeks off?"

The man's head jerked up, eyes alight and springing to attention- like a dog who had just heard a whistle. "No." He said quickly, shaking his head firmly. "No, I'm fine."

 

He wasn't going to talk, she could see that already.

 

Holding back a sigh, Laura rounded the desk and took a seat again. Well, if he wasn't going to talk, might as well put him to work. "I need you to organize a cell inspection for the whole block."

 

"For when?"

 

"Tonight." The Governor slipped on her glasses and turned back to her work, leaving Ray to give an aborted nod and stand, answering her slowly. "Right away, m'am."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_'If you ask for a favour, make sure you can repay it as soon as possible.'_

 

Those words were at the forefront of Patrick's mind, blinking in bright lights and reminding him what he had to do.

As much as he would've liked to go back to his cell, wrap himself up in his blankets and sob for at least five hours after the phone call with his mom, Patrick knew that he had to repay Frank. If he didn't, Frank would kill him…or worse.

 

With a deep sigh and a forced furrowed brow, Patrick glared around the courtyard. 'Worse' wasn't going to happen, it was never going to happen.

 

Unfortunately, the key card- or, the very thing that would've made his task easier, was gone. It was probably sitting on some desk or in a cabinet, while the higher-ups and officials talked it out and yelled at each other over it.

Patrick assumed it must've been terrifying for them; An inmate having free roam of the locked, staff-only doors- who knows what could happen, right?

 

...Well, the answer was murder, of course. A lot of murder.

 

But anyway, the point stood: The key card was gone, and for all intents and purposes, Patrick was going to die by Frank's hand unless he found a way to stay in the courtyard after dark.

 

The bad news was there weren't many viable hiding spots, and no, Patrick wasn't flexible or crazy enough to climb up to the roof or something.

 

There were bleachers, bolted tables, and chain link fences lining the courtyard. It was all slate grey and dull, obviously- everything bar the uniforms were.

 

In fact, the thing that most stood out was a basketball court.

It was pretty rundown obviously, most things were in here. By the basketball post however, there was something that caught Patrick's eye.

 

It was a ball crate, filled about half way with basketball, football and soccer balls.

Obviously, there would've have to been somewhere to put the balls away, but, as far as Patrick could see, it was the only place out of the eye shot of a guard. Or a camera. Or an immediate search light.

 

Maybe…Maybe he could _hide_ in there. He could just stay in there until 9pm, take the package or whatever, and then, when the doors opened in the morning, he could make it back to the cell in time for the sirens and headcount.

Patrick's teeth clamped down on the inside of his lip. It didn't seem like the best idea, but he didn't have very many other options. It was this or be strangled by Frank, and Patrick knew which one he was willing to risk.

 

With an inhale and a try at composure, Patrick walked over to the crate, ducking past the prisoners playing basketball and trying not to making eye contact with any of them.

 

He turned when he reached the crate, leaning back on the lid and stuffing his hands into his pockets. Staying alert, he flickered his eyes from place to place around the courtyard. From a prisoner playing basketball, to one hunched over on the bleachers, to another talking to his friends around a table.

 

Patrick subtly raised his chin, tilting his head up at the armed prison guards patrolling the watchtowers and the metal bridges between them.

Then, he looked back down to ground level, briefly watching each of the guards that stood around the courtyard.

 

This might actually be harder to do than he'd hoped.

 

He'd have to move quickly if he didn't want to get noticed- and he'd have to be swifter than he was used to being too.

 

Patrick sighed quietly, sagging down against the crate.

He didn't even want to think about what would happen if he got caught. Maybe he'd be sent to isolation, maybe he'd just be yelled at, but the word thing would be not being able to repay Frank.

That fear was the only thing _possessing_ him to do this, and god, he felt so out of his comfort zone.

 

 

 

 

Patrick had resigned himself to sitting by this goddamn crate until it was time to return to the cells, and he'd been entertaining himself by kicking at the loose rocks and gravel amongst the concrete when suddenly, loud piercing sirens drowned all other sound away.

 

The guards barked orders over the sound, and Patrick quickly stepped aside as an inmate came over to put his basketball away.

When he moved away, Patrick took one last look around.

 

The guards were busy opening doors and shepherding inmates away, and there was too much noise from the sirens for anyone to think straight.

With a sharp intake of breath and a whirlpool in his stomach, Patrick opened the lid, and jumped into the crate, shutting it behind him quietly.

 

He lay flat, burying himself in the sports balls and not really being able to hear his own thoughts over the sirens and the thundering of his own heart.

Patrick was frozen there, completely sure a prison officer would open the crate and drag him out any second, but when he finally found the courage to turn his head and watch the courtyard through the mesh, there was nobody there.

 

The prisoners and officers were all gone, and the courtyard door was firmly closed, all while the sky grew darker and darker with each passing minute.

 

Patrick couldn't quite believe it.

 

He'd done it.  
  
He'd actually fucking done it.

 

With a shaky breathless laugh, Patrick collapsed further into the soccer balls and pressed his hands over his face. He was gonna get the package, he was gonna take it back to Frank, and it was all going to be okay. He'd done it.

 

 

 

 

Patrick had been lying in the dark on a bed of sports balls for what felt like eternity when the sirens came again.

They jolted him out of his sleepiness, ordering him to wake up and look around.

He turned onto his side, pressing his nose up to the wire mesh and staring out at the pitch black courtyard with wide eyes, when-

 

Shit. The spotlights. Patrick had forgotten about the spotlights.

 

The spotlights shone on the concrete in large, white circles that moved in calculated circles.

Slowly, Patrick sat up onto his knees, struggling not to slip on a basketball. He lifted the lid, cringing when it squeaked, and peeked out at the courtyard, squinting around for the person who'd bring him the package.

 

 

_"Attention: All Cell Block 2 inmates must line up in front of their cells. An inspection will take place shortly."_

 

 

There was an inspection.

 

There was a _fucking inspection_ \- Well that was just his luck, wasn't it?

Patrick fell back, pressed his back up against the side of the crate and buried his face in his hands. "Fuck- Oh fuck, I'm so dead-" Patrick shook his head at himself quickly.

He had to stay calm, he just had to relax. There was a way out of this, there _had_ to be a way out of this.

 

_"Attention: All Cell Block 2 inmates must line up in front of their cells. An inspection will take place shortly."_

 

Sadness had turned into anger. Patrick beat his own fists at his forehead, cursing himself in aborted hisses. He knew he had to stay quiet, but- " _Fuck_ , _fuck this_ , _fuck my entire fucking life_ -"

It wasn't easy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Where's Patrick?"

Andy struggled not to straight up growl the question at Frank, and only just managed to keep his voice a whisper.

 

The other man shrugged nonchalantly, leaning back against the bars with his arms crossed over his chest.

 

Andy watched him for a moment; He knew Frank had been threatening Patrick- he'd seen it with his own two eyes. He also knew what kind of person Frank was, and besides, Andy had a tiny sinking feeling in his stomach that told him something was wrong.

 

At this point, he was just hoping Patrick wouldn't show up dead.

 

"Everyone keep still. Stand in front of the doors." Andy glanced away from Frank and towards his other side, craning his neck to see the Chief and a horde of officers standing at the end of the first gangway.

With one nod, they all dispersed.

Some groups climbed stairs and some went down them, while the rest soldiered forwards towards them.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Patrick's arm was slung over his eyes, and he was trying not to cry or hyperventilate.

He was so fucked. He could imagine how it would all play out back at the cells; The officers would swarm the place, they'd turn every stone, check every nook, shine a torch in every cranny, count every man, and in Cell 225, a prisoner would be missing.

 

The sirens would start up, they'd swarm out trying to look for him, and he'd be thrown into isolation indefinitely. Fucking fantastic.

 

Just then, through the sounds of the spotlights cranking and whirring, Patrick heard something odd. It sounded like... _w_ _hirring?_

It sounded mechanical, but far too high pitched, quiet and light to be a helicopter or a something.

 

Interest piqued and with the sound buzzing in his ears, Patrick dropped his arm and leaned up again, pushing the lid open and squinting out at the darkness. His eyes froze on the source of the whirring.

 

It was a drone. It was a fucking drone.

 

He groaned, almost letting the lid slip before gripping it tightly and leaning up even further.

 

He'd heard stories about the various, creative ways inmates smuggled drugs into their prisons. Carrier pigeons, rats, sewers, colouring books, birthday cakes- but drones were a more recent development, he guessed.

 

Whatever, Patrick shook his head and stared back up at the drone, that was slowly descending while staying out of spotlight-view.

There was something hanging from it by a string.

Patrick's eyes slowly widened in realization; That was it, that was the package- that was what he had to bring back to Frank.

 

Now, Patrick had to time this exactly right.

He needed to wait for the spotlights to restart their cycles, he needed to wait for the drone to be low enough, he needed to wait until he stopped hyperventilating.

 

Patrick let out a deep breath, eyes squeezing shut for a second.

Overthinking this was just making it worse, but not thinking about it at all might get him caught.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Andy decidedly stared forwards.

Making eye contact with officers was never a good idea; Some were normal about it but some had decided it was a threat, and besides, they were all a little more aggressive during inspections.

 

An officer strode up to them and with one quick flick of his eyes, Andy recognized him as Pete Wentz.

 

The man was usually exhausted, but always alert somehow. The bags around his eyes never faded though, and he always seemed to be milling around the prison- day or night. Andy idly wondered if he ever went home.

 

Wentz stopped in front of their cell, craning his neck to look past the bars. "Stump, get out here."

 

There was no answer, obviously, and while Andy had half a mind to tell him Patrick was missing, the officer quickly took matters into his own hands.

 

"Stump!" He growled, stepping past Andy and Frank- being careful not to nudge them with his shoulders, and striding into the cell.

Before Andy could even take a glance over his shoulder, Wentz had stepped back in front of them and he was staring them both down. His bagged eyes narrowed deeply, crinkles forming at the edge of his eyes as he gave them both a glare. "Where's Stump?"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fuck it.

Patrick leapt out of the crate. Without even thinking about the spotlights, he bolted over to the drone, and ripped the package from it. The string split with ease, and as soon as it was loose, Patrick turned on his heel and sprinted back towards the crate.

One of the spotlights shone over him as he'd just managed to crash against the side of the crate, knees scraping against the concrete.

He pressed his back against it, heart pounding like a drum. Eyes wide, he stared down at the package in his shaky hand; Black plastic and all tied up with a string, flown into the prison by a fucking drone of all things.

  
Patrick exhaled deeply, head falling back against the mesh of the crate. His hand curled around the bag, and an exhausted, relieved smile crept onto his face.

 

He'd done it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Stump- the new guy. He's missing." Wentz spoke into his radio, eyes narrowed and visibly annoyed.

"For fuck's sake, Pete- Are you sure?" The voice on the other end rang back- even more irritated than the officer in front of them.

 

Andy swallowed thickly, eyes wandering over to Frank.

 

There were two possible reasons for Patrick to be missing: A. He was dead, or B. He was escaping.

 

Now, Andy didn't like making assumptions, but Patrick didn't seem the type to escape- simply because, he _couldn't_.

Then again, Andy was really hoping the former wasn't the case either. Neither seemed preferable.

 

Wentz froze for a moment, eyes glazing over as though he'd seen a ghost.

Then, with that glassy look still invading his eyes, he ducked away with a call into the walkie talkie. "I'm going to the laundry room."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Patrick was faced with an issue.

 

The issue was as follows: It was 9pm and he was in the courtyard. He wasn't allowed to be in the courtyard. If he was caught in the courtyard, he would be sent to isolation for an entire year.

 

He also couldn't open the gates- seeing as his key card had been tossed into a vat of rice out of _necessity._

 

A bright light blinded the corner of his eye, and Patrick jerked away, shielding his eyes with his arm. Shit, the spotlights.

Whatever, he could figure out how to get out of here in a little while- for now, he just needed to avoid the lights.

 

Blowing out a hard breath, Patrick opened the lid on the crate and crawled back in, keeping his hand tight around the package.

As he fell back into the basketballs, Patrick stuffed the package into his pocket and looked out at the dark courtyard again- just before the sirens started blaring again.

 

"Oh shit-" Patrick jumped, but quickly began looking around at his surroundings. There had to be something he could do- something he could _use_ to explain why he was out here.

 

Okay, okay- he just had to think.

 

He was going to lie, obviously. Maybe he could say he'd hidden in here because…because, someone was threatening him?

No, that wasn't airtight, and there were so many places you'd go before a sports ball crate if you were being threatened.

 

Patrick pressed his forehead against the mesh, fingers hooking into it as he tried to think of something.

The wire pressing into his forehead felt oddly familiar. Patrick's brow knitted and he pulled back from it; Where did he remember that feeling from?

 

He chewed on the inside of his cheek for a minute, brow furrowed and mind racing as he tried to remember. Then, it all came back like a storm.

 

 

_Eight years old and terrible at baseball, the other kids thought it'd be funny to lock him inside the ball storage cage._

_He'd cried, he'd pleaded, he'd shaken the metal wire until his fingers were sore and red, but they'd only found him after school had ended. Or, better put- the janitor had found him, still sobbing and begging inside that goddamn cage._

 

 

Patrick's eyes snapped open. That was it- he had to lock himself in.

He was new to the prison and wasn't exactly tough guy material, so it was totally believable that some asshole might've trapped him in there for a joke. Actually, now that he thought about it, Patrick was lucky it hadn't happened for real yet.

 

So, with the not-so-pleasant, but inspiring memory of his childhood trauma swimming laps in his head, Patrick glanced around for something he could use.

The kids had school had locked him in the crate using rubber bands- they'd tied them through the latch.

 

Unfortunately, Patrick didn't have any rubber bands, and he was pretty sure they'd been banned.

 

He looked around again; He needed something like string, or rope, or-

One more scan of his surroundings, and Patrick's eyes froze on the wire mesh that lined the walls of the crate.

 

That was it. But it _was_ metal wire, and getting it loose was probably gonna hurt like a bitch.

He grimaced as he reached out towards it, slowly trying to work it out of the wood. This was gonna hurt so much. The more he pulled and tried to break the wire, the redder his fingertips became and the more boiling they felt.

Patrick hardly noticed himself grunting and swearing under the blaring sirens as he pulled, arms aching and legs braced as he leant back, pulling with all his might.

 

Then, with one violent tug backwards, a strand snapped loose with a clang.

 

Patrick collapsed back, panting for a moment before rolling back onto his knees and crawling towards the latch on the crate.

Carefully, Patrick worked the wire through the holes in the mesh. He twisted it through the latch, pulling the other side down, before tying it as best he could with sore hands and through a barrier.

He tugged on the makeshift knot once, and when it held fast, he fell back and sighed.

 

He was locked in. And now came the next part of the lie, he supposed.

Now, Patrick didn't really want to start screaming hysterically the way he had when he was eight years old, but he had to make his entrapment look convincing somehow.

 

Patrick decided to take the 'tired' and 'defeated' route instead.

He fell back, boneless. He started hooking his hands into the metal wire and shaking at it weakly. He let his eyelids droop in fake exhaustion, he tried to make himself cry- but only got as far as his eyes getting red and damp.

He'd kick it up a notch when someone came looking for him, there was no point in tiring himself out now.

 

So, the moment the courtyard door opened, Patrick sprang into action.

 

He shook at the metal, kicked the lid, and cried out to an officer's silhouette at the entrance. "HELP ME- PLEASE- LET ME OUT-"

The prison guard ran over urgently, a spotlight trailing over him to give him some help.

 

Patrick quietened his yells down to whimpers as he watched the young man undoing the wire in something like a panic.

The moment he swung the lid back, Patrick clambered out with a heavy gasp- like he'd just been allowed to resurface from under a lake, and stood on genuinely shaky legs.

Being folded up in a crate had really taken a toll on his knees, and, seeing how wobbly he looked, the officer reached out to hold him up straight.

 

"Are you okay?" The officer asked, dark eyes wide and shocked.

Patrick nodded furiously, still sniffing and batting away at the tears he'd forced from his eyes. "S-Someone locked me in."

 

"Is that Stump?"

 

Both Patrick's and the officer's heads jerked up, quickly spotting Chief Toro soldiering towards them. He stopped in front of the prisoner, giving him a concerned once over, before glancing back at the crate and putting two and two together.

 

"What happened to your hands?" Toro nodded down at Patrick, eyes stuck on his hands.

 

Wait, what?

Patrick's brow knitted and he looked down in a panic. His eyes burst wide as he saw just how mangled his fingertips looked.

They'd gone past the point of being sore and blushed- they were torn open and trailing iron-scented blood over everything he touched.

The small splatters were already painting his legs and arms, and now that he thought about it, he could feel the stickiness on his face. Patrick hadn't noticed any of it in the dark.

 

Looking back up at Toro, Patrick gaped for a minute, before quickly shrugging and slowly taking the shock off of his face. "I tried to fight back."

The chief stared for a minute, eyes somehow both blank and suspicious, before concern replaced both.

 

"Can you walk?"

Patrick sniffed roughly and nodded.

Toro nodded again, a small pitiful smile on his face. "Let's go then."

 

 

 

Patrick put all his focus on not tripping or stumbling as the two prison guards pulled him inside by the arms- both to help him walk, and to make sure he didn't try and run for any reason.

Not that that would've been possible; Patrick was as graceful as a fawn learning to walk right now.

 

They were back on the first floor of the cell block, heading towards the first flight of stairs, when the gates at the other end of the block opened. The Governor, flanked by two officers- one of who Patrick recognized as 'Wentz' from the canteen yesterday, strode towards them.

 

The Governor seemed to visibly relax when she saw Patrick- likely thankful there hadn't been another murder that night. But she quickly put a shield back up, her eyes firm and flicking over to Toro. "Where was he?"

 

"They'd locked him up."

 

"Where?"

 

"The ball crate. In the courtyard."

 

The Governor looked back to Patrick, her expression suddenly taking a dark, serious turn. The silence was almost deafening as her eyes moved across him, and out of habit, Patrick ducked his head away, avoiding the stare.

There was a moment of arduously long silence, when her voice came again.

 

"Search him."

 

With a sharp inhale, Patrick's head jerked up.

 

Fuck. Frank's package.

 

His eyes blanked over as the younger officer moved to search him. It was in his pocket. It was in his fucking pocket, he hadn't even hidden it right.

He was gonna get caught, oh fuck- he was gonna be in isolation forever-

 

The officer's hand stopped by his pocket. Patrick closed his eyes, squeezing them painfully.

He couldn't believe how fucking stupid he'd been. God, why was he so pathetic? Why did he _always_ fuck everything up? Couldn't he get one fucking thing right?

 

The officer's hand reached into his pocket, and a moment later, Patrick felt the weight lift. There was an intake of breath from the Governor.

Patrick looked over his shoulder, tears escaping his eyes for real now. He was so fucked.

 

"Solitary confinement. Two weeks."

 

The words stuck in Patrick's throat, his eyes glazed over, and as an unknown officer dragged him away from the cell block, he couldn't even find the motor skills to fight it.

  
He trudged along uselessly, eyes still wide and free hand hovering over the pocket that was now absent of the package.

It sank in right then and there. Frank was gonna kill him.

He hadn't repaid his favour, and now, Frank was gonna kill him, or make him a maid, or beat him senseless, or-

 

"In." The officer growled, opening the large iron doors that were presumably, isolation chambers. Patrick stared for a moment, gaze a thousand yards long before the spark ignited in his brain.

"No- no, I have to talk to someone. I have to talk to the Governor, or- s-someone-"

"Shut up, and get inside." The officer snarled again, but Patrick only kept babbling uselessly. "-can't- he's gonna kill me, I'm dead, I'm de-"

 

Patience gone, the officer gripped him by the arm roughly enough to leave finger-shaped bruises, and shoved him into the tiny square room, leaving him to crash against the wall.

With a grunt, Patrick lurched back towards the door but only met metal as the officer slammed it shut with a clanging sound.

 

"Wait, no no- I need to talk to her, please-" Patrick hit a hand against the door, but of course, it was ignored. "He's going to kill me, he's gonna kill me-"

Patrick listened to the locks click and close as he slipped down to the floor, pressing his back against the metal.

It was completely irrational, but he was convinced that if he stayed by the door, someone would hear him, someone would understand, and someone would let him go.

 

 

 

 

No one did, of course.

 

Patrick hadn't moved from where he sat on the floor, limbs loose and mind looser. He couldn't be in here for two weeks. Two hours had barely passed and he already felt exhausted and starved- he couldn't survive in here for _two weeks_.

 

The room was small, cold and dim. The stone walls were rough, the concrete floor was dusty and covered in grains of stone stand, and the vents were full of lonely spider webs.

In the corner of the room sat a bed, neatly covered in white sheets, and the light bulb that hung above him buzzed lowly. He glared up at it weakly, tears lining the brims of his eyes.

That sound was going to drive him insane.

 

 

 

 

Another three hours later, and Patrick had in fact, gone insane.

Well, maybe _insane_ was too far fetched- sleep deprived and angry at a light bulb was a little more accurate. Patrick had gotten tired of sitting on the floor a while ago, and had traded sandy concrete for a hard mattress instead.

 

Things had started out quiet and peaceful, but then Patrick had realized that he wasn't falling asleep because the light bulb's noise was keeping him awake. And then, the problems had started.

 

At first, Patrick had glared at the light, as though he could shut it up by sheer will alone.

When that hadn't worked, he'd tried plugging his ears with his hands, but when that hadn't worked- Patrick had tried throwing his pillow at it.

 

He'd missed. Several times.

 

So now, out of options and more pissed off than ever, Patrick was tossing and turning like a wild animal.

His teeth were gritted, his jaw was locked, and every muscle in his body was tensed up and ready to snap. His slightly dirty pillow was pulled around the back of his head, pressing over his ears to lock out the infernal buzzing that _he was still hearing somehow_.

 

Patrick huffed and landed on his back, giving the light bulb a final dirty look before turning towards the wall with a jump.

The bed dragged back away from the wall when he moved, and with a surprised jolt, Patrick sat up. Eyes wide, he glanced down at the gap between stone and mattress for a moment, before rising to his feet with a sigh.

 

But, when he moved to push the bed back against the wall, something caught his eye and made him stop dead in his tracks.

There was a black mark carved into the wall, hidden away behind the mattress. Patrick couldn't quite make out what it said, so with a raised eyebrow, he crept towards it and pushed the bed away even further.

Crouching down, Patrick pressed a hand against wall beside the mark, tilting his head down at it curiously.

 

8.

 

That was all it read. '8'. Patrick squinted for a moment, sitting back down on the floor with his back pressed against the bed frame. And Patrick stared at that number, wondering why on Earth it was so familiar.

 

 

 

 

Gerard.

 

It was familiar because of Gerard.

 

With fingertips that had been wrapped in band-aids since the day before, Patrick rubbed at his eyes, pulling the blanket further up towards his shoulder and shivering at the draught in the room.

 

When he closed his eyes, he saw that exact same 8, only inked into Gerard's skin instead of inked into the wall.

 

He hadn't thought of the man much since…since he'd 'passed away', but all it had taken was a number in the wall to flood his head with the few hours he knew Gerard.

And while Patrick hadn't known much, he was certain Gerard hadn't deserved whatever had happened to him…not that he knew what had happened to him, all he could be certain of was that he was probably in a hospital morgue right now.

 

With a shake of his head, Patrick turned onto his back, straining his ears to listen to everything around him. Or, the lack of everything around him.

The buzzing of the light bulb had become bearable after the seventh hour, oddly enough. Patrick had finally been able to fall asleep, too.

 

Funny, in the past he would've adored being locked in a room alone, left to do nothing but sleep.

 

Beyond the buzzing however, there were the faint but instantly recognizable sounds of music. Classical, of course. Patrick could hear the falsettos of the violins from here.

They thought it would help behaviour, they thought it would calm them all down. But, judging by the state of the prison and the people inside it, Patrick really doubted it was working.

 

Idly, Patrick wondered if he should get up, but-

He took one look around the empty room, chest constricting as a small pang of claustrophobia hit him square there. There was no point. Nothing to do, nowhere to go. Just a square room and a bed, and Patrick was stuck inside.

So instead, he threw an arm over his eyes and tried to forget where he was, letting the faint sounds of music replace his thoughts.

 

 

 

 

"Hey. Is there anyone there?"

 

When Patrick had first heard the voice, he'd been 100% sure he'd started hallucinating.

He was convinced that he was so mentally weak, he'd already snapped into full blown insanity by the third day of being locked in here.

 

"Anybody there?"

 

Then it had kept coming, insistent, curious and even a little friendly.

Patrick had managed to pinpoint it down to the vent in the corner of the room, and slowly, he'd moved towards it.

He crouched down beside it, one hand braced against the wall and head cocked down at the metal grate. "Hello?" He tried curiously, still half sure he was still hallucinating it all.

 

"You're new in the hole, right?" The voice sounded young, and it carried an accent straight out of Illinois. It was familiar, reminded him of home, and it actually put a tiny smile on Patrick's face.

Smile stubbornly growing, Patrick blinked and sat down on the hard floor, leaning towards the metal. "Yeah, I am." He swallowed the slight lump in his throat, "I've been in here for three days."

 

"I've been here for a week." The voice on the other side chuckled tiredly. There was a break in the exchange, before the voice came again. "By the way, do you know what time it is?"

Patrick shrugged, staring into the vent. "No. I guess it's morning, though."

 

"You don't know if it's day or night anymore." The voice sighed. Patrick could practically hear the shake of the man's head. "They keep turning the lamps on every four hours when they make their rounds. I used to guess by the meals, but they keep changing those, too."

 

Patrick nodded, eyebrows flashing upwards in agreement. It was like everything was engineered to throw them off, to disconnect them, to drive them madder than usual.

 

There was a pause, and then the voice came again, less accusing and even softer than before. "Hey uh…Why are you here?"

 

Patrick sighed, dropped the side of his head into his palm. "They caught me smuggling drugs." Patrick huffed, bitterly amused, before adding a few more words ruefully. "On my second day."

 

The voice on the other side of the vent laughed, brightly and braying at the same time. The sound was infectious, and Patrick found his smile had flourished into a grin, and small hiccups of laughter were escaping him too.

 

"Strong start, dude." The voice snorted, once its owner finally calmed down.

Patrick chuckled softly, head tilting even more as he stared at the grate. The smile on his face was dazed and lazy, and for once, Patrick felt pretty happy.

It was like having a friend. Like, having a friend, _without_ seeing the prison uniform, _without_ knowing the crime they'd committed- it was like having a friend with some degree of innocence in the mix.

 

"The drugs weren't mine." Patrick said after a pause, eyes falling to the concrete. Cold rose through his stomach as his mind wandered back to Frank, but he shook his head and forced the thought away. He was safe. For now. Not even Frank was smart enough to get through the metal and stone of solitary.

" _Riiight_. _Not yours_." The voice was laced with playful sarcasm, and while Patrick offered a small chuckle, he shook his head resolutely. "Not mine."

The voice paused for a moment, and when it rang out again, it was a little more cautious. "So, who's was it?"

 

Patrick froze, eyes stuck wide for a moment before he ducked his head. Was telling this guy a good idea?

For some reason, Patrick trusted him already, but it was still a sensitive issue. And god, what if Frank found out-

 

"You don't have to tell me. Sorry, I shouldn't have asked-"

 

"Frank. He's my cellmate." The words had tumbled out of Patrick's mouth before he'd even had time to stop them. "I owed him a favour."

There was a pause for a long moment, and Patrick had wondered if the man had left when the voice crept into his ears again.

 

"Do you want some advice?"

 

Patrick shrugged, smile tiny on his face. "Sure."

"Don't sit around all day. Don't sleep either."

 

With a heavy sigh, Patrick's eyes fell shut and his chin dropped into his hands. "But that's all I want to do." He whined, high, petulant and pathetic, knowing full well how immature he must sound.

 

"You need to move around." The voice lectured, but still carrying a friendly, helpful note to it. "Your muscles will waste away if you don't."

Patrick snorted. "Literally, what muscles?"

 

The voice dissolved out into laughter again, and Patrick joined the sound faster this time.

Patrick wasn't sure if it was thanks to the prolonged isolation, but he was inexplicably attached to the voice already. He hoped the guy on the other side wouldn't get bored of him soon.

 

"Seriously though," Patrick tried not to sigh as the voice continued its lecture. "Exhaust yourself: pace around, do push-ups or something- But don't just sit around." There was a pause.

 

"Promise?"

 

Patrick huffed bemusedly, but with a good natured roll of his eyes he nodded. "Promise."

 

 

 

 

Time fled by after that. Patrick and the voice talked about all kinds of things, from how depressing the isolation cells were, to what had landed them in there, to what they'd do when they got out of prison.

By the end of it, Patrick had been grinning, happier than he had been in the few days since all of this had started- even, happier than in the near year since the whole money issue with Elisa had started.

 

Patrick was happy, he was actually happy. Sat in cold, dark isolation, and talking to someone he couldn't even see- and he was _happy_.

All good things came to their ends though, and as the two broke off of a conversation about childhood pets, the voice abruptly lowered.

 

"I think they're coming to let me out."

 

"Oh-" Patrick instantly tried to mask the disappointment in his voice. "Well, good luck." The voice chuckled tiredly, "Thanks- and, take care of yourself." There was a pause again. "You _promised_ , remember?"

Patrick's smile broadened, taking up his whole face, and he nodded. "Yeah, I promised."

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pete drew away from the vent with a hint of reluctance in the pit of his stomach. And, not to mention the guilt for lying to the inmate on the other side.

 

Looking down at the audio recorder in his hand, the guilt struck Pete a little harder, but he quickly shook it off.

He'd done his job, and on top of that, he'd given a lonely, isolated solitary prisoner a short conversation. He'd gone above and beyond.

 

Regardless, the officer opened the metal door and slipped out, instantly coming face-to-face with Toro.

Pete held up the recorder wordlessly, and the other man nodded, exhaling in relief before raising a brow. "You were in there for a while."

Smile on his face, Pete rolled his eyes at Ray and shrugged. "He took convincing."

 

" _Right_."

 

Truthfully, the chat could've been much shorter than an hour and a half, but one thing had led to another, and time had melted by like a wax candle on fire.

And maybe, just maybe, Pete had enjoyed the conversation a little.

 

Look, not being able to see someone's face took a lot of the pressure off. That was the reasoning Pete was going with.

 

"Hey!"

 

Stump called out again, voice muffled behind the heavy metal doors of solitary.

 

"I just- I just wanted to say thanks."

 

Both Pete and Ray stopped and turned. Pete glanced at Ray, almost asking for permission to answer. The chief only raised his eyebrows, seemingly giving Pete the go-ahead to say whatever.

Leaning towards the door, a tiny smile settled on Pete's features. "You're welcome."

 

 

 

 

 

 

When Patrick made a promise, Patrick never broke it. Or, at least, he _tried_ to never break it.

 

Sometimes, things out of his control would stop him fulfilling one, but right now at least, he could easily fulfill the promise he'd made to the voice behind the grate.

 

So, Patrick was doing press-ups. And before that, he'd been doing sit-ups. And he was _really_ glad nobody was around to see him.

Patrick and sports had never really mixed. It wasn't for lack of trying, his parents had always enrolled him in sports at school, but it usually ended up with something like being locked inside the ball crate. It had always just seemed he was naturally indisposed to it.

 

"Twelve-" Patrick gritted out, the sweat on his forehead beading and dropping to the floor, leaving dark spots in its wake.

"Thirteen-" He almost whined. His arms felt like noodles, they were going to give out at any moment.

"Fourteen-" Patrick gasped, holding himself up on his arms and tensing them until they were ready to snap. One more would be enough, right? Fifteen was a good number, and he could do some more later.

 

Patrick's arms trembled, and he very quickly decided that yes, fifteen was enough.

 

Exhaling deeply and shakily, Patrick moved to give one more press-up, but-

 

His arms gave out, all his weight landing on his wrists. With a yelp and the sound of a crack ringing through his ears, Patrick fell onto the floor, rolling onto his back as he cradled his left wrist to his chest.

He groaned, writhed and panted, his wrist throbbing with his quick pulse. "Fuck- argh- HEY, I-" Wriggling towards the door and using his healthy hand, Patrick hammered on the metal with a fist, eyes squinted and chest still heaving through the pain.

 

A few moments later, the door opened, and before he knew it, Patrick was on his feet and being led away from the cold isolation quarter.

He groaned and whined every second his wrist throbbed, head lolling to the sides and eyelids droopy.

 

Fifteen. Fifteen fucking press-ups before he'd gone and broken his wrist. Patrick despised himself sometimes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The doctor was careful as he pulled the bandage around Patrick's wrist, tying it up neatly and perfectly with trained precision.

Patrick wondered if he'd done this often, or if the injuries he saw in here tended to be more serious.

 

"It's a sprained wrist," Doctor Reynolds' light eyes flicked up to Patrick, his voice carrying a note of the smile on his face. "Just a small ligament rupture."

He tied a small knot, securing the bandage in place, and looked down at Patrick with a smile.  


The doctor pressed his fingers into the hollow below Patrick's palm, making the younger man wince and tug his hand back. Reynolds held on however. "Does it hurt there?"

"Yes." Patrick hissed, eyes glued on his bundled, aching wrist.

 

"Alright…" The doctor moved away, ducking behind the curtains that separated bed from bed, and exam table from exam table.

Groaning inwardly, Patrick hoped and prayed that the doctor wouldn't decide to pump him full of tranquilizer again. Being _that_ sleepy and vulnerable was downright terrifying in a place like this.

 

Behind the curtain, Patrick heard a hum from the doctor, who's head quickly poked around the curtain's edge. "I'm going to find you an anti-inflammatory, just stay here and I'll be right back."

 

Patrick nodded quickly, and a moment later, the doctor was gone and all was quiet.

 

Leaning back and cradling his wrist, Patrick idly wondered if he'd be sent back to isolation. Maybe there was a rule about injuries, maybe he'd just be sent back to his cell. God, on one hand, he really hoped so.

 

On the other, he wasn't exactly _eager_ to tell Frank he'd lost his drugs.

 

Just as Patrick was starting to make his lip bleed from all his chewing, a voice from his left made him jump in surprise.

 

"Hey. Newbie."

 

Still cradling his wrist, Patrick glanced to the side with a jump.

A man was watching him from the edge of the curtain. He looked disheveled, and there were large dark rings under his washed out eyes.

 

He looked familiar, and it only took a squint before Patrick recognized him. He was really getting better at remembering faces and their names.

It was the same guy that had been asking him for a spare toothbrush a few days ago…'Spencer', if he remembered right.

 

"Use what?" Patrick raised an eyebrow at the man, only to be given one in return.

 

"Drugs?"

 

Patrick shook his head quickly, a childlike innocence taking over him in a second. "No, no- of course not."

 

"Can you…?" The man moved towards him, holding out the small plastic jar in his hand.

 

Oh.

 

Oh, for fuck's sake.

 

Just as Patrick moved to fervently shake his head, Smith moved forwards again, a flare of desperation in his blue eyes.

 

"Please- Look, I'm begging you. If you don't, they'll put me in isolation, and I- I can't- just-"

Isolation sucked. Patrick knew that much. He also knew- or assumed, this guy was addicted to…something. Isolation would be that much worse for him.

 

"Come on, if you don't help me they'll lock me in the hole without codeine, or- or methadone- dude, _please_ -"

 

Patrick to stand and moved to step backwards again, when Spencer lurched forwards again.

 

"I'll owe you."

 

Patrick stopped.

Now, Patrick didn't want to get involved in the whole 'I owe you', 'you owe me' situation, but- maybe having a pending favour would…help?

Maybe Spencer could help him out someday. It was better to have insurance and not use it, than to need it and not have it, right?

 

Patrick's eyes flitted down to the jar again. His brow furrowed.

 

Fuck it. Even if he _did_ get caught, he was in trouble already. He could take it.

 

He took the jar from Spencer, trying to look stern at the relieved look the man gave him. "Oh my god, thank you so much-"

 

"Alright alright-"

 

"-And hurry, 'cause Reynolds' is gonna be back soon-"

 

"Just go, Spencer."

 

The man nodded eagerly, before disappearing behind the curtain. "You got it."

 

When Patrick finally handed the jar back, Spencer gave a long exhale and smiled, moving back around the curtain. "You're the best, dude."

Trying to look sterner than usual, Patrick watched him go, nodded curtly and leant back against the examination table. "You owe me."

 

"That I do-"

 

Spencer froze, face dropping, eyes suddenly blanking and locking onto something behind the curtain. But, just as Patrick made a move to stand and see what it was, Spencer had ducked away sheepishly, and Ryan had taken his place, emerging from behind the flimsy barrier.

 

His hands were buried in his pockets and his eyes were level, all as he stared holes into Patrick. Fuck. Shit- Why was _he_ here?

Thankfully…or, unfortunately, Ryan spoke quickly, casting aside all of Patrick's doubts and leaving nothing but murky terror behind.

 

"How'd you get out of isolation?"

 

Patrick really considered saying 'through the door', but decided against it.

He bit his tongue instead, mind short-circuiting and leaving him wordless. Ryan cocked his head and spoke again. "Nobody caught with heroin gets out early."

 

Patrick swallowed the lump that had appeared in his throat, and weakly held up his bandaged hand. "I sprained my wrist."

 

To his surprise, Ryan chuckled. It was a light, unassuming- even friendly sound, but it still sent chills running down Patrick's spine all the same.

 

"That's a good excuse." Ryan's grin was broad and bright. He turned to glance behind the curtain, nodding at Spencer who was still lingering there nervously. "Right, Smith?"

"Haha, what?" Spencer's voice was laced with a forced laugh, but he kept his distance from the man in orange.

 

Ryan laughed cheerily again, eyes flicking back onto Patrick with precision. "Give the stupid brat a bandage so nobody knows he's a rat."

 

Patrick's blood froze. His mind blanked, his tongue couldn't move, and he only stared like a deer in the headlights as Ryan pushed off the wall and moved forwards.

He slid onto the table beside Patrick, cocking his head the other way. "Do you know what a rat is?"

 

A small rodent?

Whatever. Patrick decided to focus on making sure his bottom lip didn't start trembling.

 

"It's a snitch."

 

Just then, every coherent thought and move in Patrick burst back into him like a firework. He shook his head fervently, his eyes widened, and he somehow kept his voice level- despite the pang of desperation in it. "I didn't snitch on anyone."

 

Ryan smiled. "You and I are the last two people who saw Gerard alive."

 

Patrick felt the taste of bile flood his tongue, but stubbornly, he swallowed it down and shrugged. "I was asleep."

 

The other man huffed for a moment, glancing back over to the edge of the curtain from which he'd come.

Patrick was seriously considering running away. Maybe, if he got to Doctor Reynolds, or, maybe if he made it to the Governor's office-

 

"Let me see."

 

Ryan's voice was suddenly as soft as cotton and as sweet as candy, and his eyes- that were moving over Patrick's wrist, were the same.

Hesitation was the last thing he needed to show right now.

 

So, Patrick handed out his wrist, letting Ryan take it in his hands and hold it tenderly.

 

"Y'know Patrick," Ryan tilted his head, eyes moving over the knot that held the bandage together. "I'm not stupid."

In a split second, his eyes flicked over to Patrick's, now full of that same blank glaze they'd held before. "You won't trick me with bandages."

 

All Patrick felt was pain and all he saw was white. With a pained gasp, he hunched over, tugging his hand back away on instinct, but Ryan held firm- fingers digging into the hollows between his torn bones and muscles.

Patrick panted desperately, hunched over and not quite being able to find the words to beg as Ryan started speaking calmly again.

 

"Nobody sleeps on the first night."

 

Patrick gave a particularly embarrassing whine, and Ryan finally let his hand go with a shove and a bemused huff.

" _Fuck_ -" Patrick gasped, cradling his bandaged hand to his chest and keeping his gaze firmly away from Ryan as he nursed himself through the pain.

 

"Listen, newbie." Ryan sighed, sounding exasperated and plain fed up by this point. "I'm not saying I'm not guilty-"

 

Patrick's head jerked up, brain half registering the vague confession.

Ryan made a point of finding Patrick's eyes, "But they're leading a witch-hunt for me here." He shrugged lightly, waiting until Patrick's shoulders had dropped from where they'd hunched up before. "And, if you tell them about…that night, they'll probably pin the murder on me."

 

Ryan raised his brow, eyes flicking back into friendliness. "Get it?"

 

Patrick stared, mouth agape in both horror and awe; How could someone switch between those two modes like that? How could someone look so friendly while simultaneously making a threat? It was fucking unbelievable. And Patrick was morbidly impressed.

 

He would've been even more impressed if the threat hadn't been directed towards him.

 

He swallowed the renewed lump in his throat, eyes flicking away from Ryan and towards the wall opposite them instead. "I suppose you're threatening me."

With a click of his tongue, Ryan let his head fall back. "Let me think…" He hummed for a moment, head tilting from side to side before it snapped down back to Patrick. He nodded matter-of-factly. "Yep."

 

"Ryan Ross."

 

Ryan jumped from the table, standing up straight and plastering a smile on his face as Dr. Reynolds returned. Patrick had to hold back a sigh of relief.

The doctor stared at the newcomer with a raised brow, "Did you need something?"

"I have a migraine, I need a painkiller." Ryan said quickly, not even missing a beat or stuttering for a second. If Patrick could lie like that, he would've done much better in life. He sighed quietly, and bitterly.

 

"Best thing to do is sleep it off, Ryan."

 

Ryan clicked his tongue and slunk away in silence, not even sparing a glance back at Patrick.

 

The moment he was gone, Reynolds shook the small white pill bottle he was carrying, smiling up at Patrick amicably.

He quickly opened the lid and pulled out two pills, "Here. Take this." He handed the tiny pellets to Patrick, who swallowed them down without water.

 

"You won't go back to solitary." The doctor chimed. Patrick froze; Going back to the cell didn't seem fantastic right now.

Then, Reynolds tilted his head, snapping the bottle's lid shut again. "You'll stay in the sick bay, under my watch."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Four two."

 

The gates slid open, a mixture of mechanical and old metal noises pouring from them.

Patrick's stomach felt like it was a pit of writhing snakes, that got more and more pissed with every step he took towards the visitor's room.

He stopped in front of the long frosted windows that showed a peek into the almost-free world, and he paused, everything inside him freezing one after the other.

 

His mom and dad.

 

They were right there. They sat at one of the wooden tables, both of them seemingly paler than usual.

His mom's hands were folded, pressing against her mouth as she stared forwards in complete silence. His dad just looked blank, however. Blank eyes, a blank stare, and, if Patrick squinted hard enough, he could feel slight disappointment radiating from the man.

 

Fuck.

 

It had been different over the phone, of course it had. It had all been sobbing and promises of freedom and of how much they loved him, but now…

 

Now, he was real. Their son, the high security prisoner who was charged with four crimes and seven years, was real.

No longer was it a nightmare, or a fever dream, or a horrible impossibility. It was reality now.

 

And Patrick felt so ashamed that every inch of him ached.

 

"Take your time."

Patrick wasn't sure if he wanted to.

He glanced over his shoulder, recognizing the officer that had led him to his cell, that had told him about Gerard in the canteen, and that now, had led him to execution by his parents.

 

Pete- as Patrick had learned his first name was, looked typically tired, but oddly sympathetic.

Appreciating the gesture at least, Patrick nodded and croaked a 'Thank you' weakly, before his head turned back towards his parents- still unaware of him, behind the glass, and still sat in silence.

 

Shaking his head, there was a spike of guiltiness that speared through Patrick. "I don't know what to say to them."

Patrick hadn't been sure if he'd been talking to Pete or to himself, but the former decided to answer regardless.

 

"They're your parents. They're supposed to be there no matter what- That's the whole parent-kid deal thingy, right?"

 

_Eloquent_. And slightly comforting.

But then, his old lies reared up like a cobra, reminding him of what he'd said and very literally biting him in the ass.

Patrick ducked his head and shook it again, loathing his own stupidity. "I told them I was on vacation…That I was visiting a friend." He mumbled weakly.

 

To his surprise, there was a breathy laugh from behind him, and even more surprising, it made Patrick laugh too.

He glanced over his shoulder, finding Pete with crinkled eye corners while he stubbornly scrubbed at his mouth with a hand, seemingly trying to hide the sound away.

 

Patrick only smiled at him and shrugged; Pete could laugh if he wanted too, it was actually pretty funny in a pathetic, cringe-humor kind of way.

 

Patrick turned back to the glass, back to his unassuming parents.

 

"I've always been the- the goody-two-shoes, y'know? I was always the well-behaved kid." Patrick's teeth dug into the ragged flesh of his cheek, fighting off the prickling that was starting to assault his eyes.

He was not going to cry right now. Not in front of Pete, not moments away from meeting his parents.

 

"This is the first time in my life I've ever done something- something crazy, or- _wild_ , and, fuck- Look where I ended up, on my first fucking try-"

 

"Come here."

With a sniff he hadn't even realized he'd needed, Patrick turned to see Pete moving towards him.

 

The man nodded at the bandage on Patrick's wrist, and the sling that held it secure and pressed up to his chest.

"Take the sling off, and just hide the bandage. Under the table or something, okay?"

Patrick obliged quickly, pulling the thin sling off and stuffing it into his pocket.

 

Then, Pete dug a hand into his own pocket, swiftly fishing out a packet of mints. It was half finished and the excess foil was crumpled over the top, but without a note of hesitation, Pete handed it over.

 

Okay. Honestly, a little weird. Warm mints were not something he needed right now.

 

Patrick stared at him oddly for a moment.

The officer shrugged, stuttered and looked altogether flustered. "Y-Y'know this shit's banned in most places, right?"

Patrick made a noise of questioning, but Pete shook his head quickly, skin a little redder than usual. "Whatever- Look. If you go in with mints- that are usually _banned_ , it'll make this place look better." Pete crooked his neck and shrugged lightly, more to himself than to Patrick. "In comparison."

" _Ohh_ -"

"Goddamn right 'oh'- Here, just-" Pete shook the mints again, and this time, Patrick took them without a pause and a raised eyebrow.

As much as Patrick wanted to laugh at Pete's expense right now, the man _was_ helping him and Patrick had been raised with good manners.

 

With a broad smile, and honestly feeling a good deal calmer, Patrick looked up at Pete- who was only a little taller than he was. "Thank you."

Despite himself, Pete's face flickered into a small smile and he nodded, "You're welcome."

 

With a heavy exhale and his hand tight around the mints, Patrick slowly walked towards the door. It was frosted glass too, pasted with the black words 'Visitor's Room', but the second Patrick's hand moved to the handle-

 

"Hugging isn't allowed, by the way."

 

Patrick raised an eyebrow, looking back at Pete with a flurry of shock on his face. The officer simply shrugged, looking oddly sympathetic again. "Well- you can hug 'em, but you gotta keep it five seconds or less."

"Seriously?" Patrick stared, not really stand-offish at Pete, more at the whole system that meant he wasn't allowed to hug his parents for as long as he wanted too. It was kinda fucked up.

 

"You also can't exchange goods either. Like, clothes, or food, and stuff. If they wanna give you something, they have to submit it through the prison." Pete shrugged lightly again, "Sorry, rules are rules."

 

Rules _were_ rules, Pete was right.

So, with a quiet sigh and a nod- along with a last small smile, Patrick finally found the courage to pull the door handle, finally open the door, and step through.

 

 

 

 

The second the door closed behind him, his mom had spotted him.

And the moment she did, she rose to her feet and stood by the table, staring with wide eyes and a heartbreaking look on her face.

 

Patrick stopped in front of her, every part of him suddenly feeling sluggish. He could hardly bring himself to look her in the eye. He'd fucked up, he'd fucked up so much- he'd let her down. He'd let them both down.

When he finally did glance up though, his mom surged forwards and wrapped her arms around him like a vice. She hugged him tightly, hand gripping the back of his head in that soft, comforting way only she could manage.

 

Patrick couldn't hold back the dry sob that burst from his chest.

 

"Move away, please."

 

The droning voice of what was probably an officer made Patrick jolt, and reluctantly pull away from his the hug- but not without his mom planting a firm kiss on his forehead.

 

They all slid into the seats that circled the square table, and, to Patrick's relief, his mom was smiling at him broadly.

Her eyes were damp, however, but Patrick tried to ignore that little fact.

 

His dad looked more shocked than she did however. And Patrick supposed that was his fault.

Yes, his fault for landing himself in prison, but also because he'd neglected to talk to his dad over the phone; Patrick had just been more desperate to call his mother.

He'd hoped- and had been right, that she'd comfort him, rather than berate him.

 

"How are you, sweetheart?"

His mom's head tilted, her damp eyes glistening a little more under the light.

They flickered down to Patrick's healthy hand- while the bandaged one hid under the table, curled around the pack of mints Pete had given him.

 

"They give you mints in jail?" His mom asked again, voice tinged with a desperation to know every detail about the place her son was stuck in.

 

Patrick nodded quickly, deciding that, if nothing else, his mom would leave here with less worries than she'd come with.

 

"Yeah, they do. They're really thoughtful, sometimes." That last bit had been more about _Pete_ than about 'the jail', but regardless, his mom nodded, looking significantly more relieved.

A beat of silence passed, and Patrick tried a small smile and a wide eyed look at his mom- while trying to swiftly ignore his dad's critical stare. "I'm fine, mom. I swear."

 

The woman nodded again, giving a small laugh as she dabbed at her eyes with her jacket sleeve. "I had so much to tell you, Patrick, but I've just-"

Patrick chuckled too, making sure his eyes folded at the corners like they did when the gesture was real.

 

"Well- Tell us about it, sweetheart." His mom tilted her head, that fiery protectiveness and hungry curiosity alighting her eyes all over again. "How many people are in your cell?"

Patrick was quick to answer, he didn't want to hesitate for a moment- it would just worry them both. "There's three of us right now, because uh-"

 

Gerard. Dead.

 

Those were the only two words that flashed through Patrick's head, but stubbornly, he shook them away. "Because a guy just left, but we'll be four again, soon."

His mother nodded deeply, eyes glued onto her son. Her voice was a little more worried and timid when it finally came again. "And…do- I mean, are you grouped, according to your crimes, or-"

"Yeah!" Patrick lied cheerily. "I'm not living with violent criminals, or anything." He chuckled, struggling to keep his grin fixed as two more words attacked his mind in full force:

 

Andy. Manslaughter.

 

"They're nice people." Patrick assured. His eyes flickered over to his dad, who silently tilted his head to the side, eyes blank and suspicious and knowing all at once. Patrick smiled again, nodding deeply. "Really."

 

There were a few moments of silence that burned and scalded every inch of Patrick. His heart was hammering by the end of it, almost sighing in relief when his mom broke the tension with a smile and happy news. "Oh- That's what I was gonna tell you: Your brother passed his final exams- he finished his Master's. He's going to graduate soon."

 

Patrick blanked, not quite sure how to answer or what reaction to give.

 

"There isn't a set date yet, of course, but-"

"He did very well." Those were his dad's first words, curt and to the point, ending the topic before Patrick had been obligated to say a thing.

 

His mom, distracted from good news and remembering where they were, looked worried again. Her voice trembled a little as she spoke, and her eyes quickly dampened again as she raked them over Patrick. "You look a little skinny, Patrick-"

"Mom, I've been in here for like, five days! I look the same as I did when I got in here." He reassured quickly, pasting a grin that was hard to maintain onto his face again.

 

But, the second it faltered, his mom noticed and sprang into action. Her voice was lower now, and it warbled with concern _AND_ fear now. He was doing just _great_ at putting her mind at ease. "Have you done something bad?"

 

Patrick felt like kicking himself; The only thing he'd wanted to do was spare her worry, and he'd even failed at that.

Swallowing down the lump in his throat, Patrick tried a look at both of his parents. "The only bad thing a did was- was getting involved, with a girl w-who decided to trick me."

 

His eyes were prickling, and keeping them both dry and open was starting to be impossible.

 

He ducked his head, exhaling shakily and rubbing at his eyes with his free hand before appealing to his parents. "And now- I can't get out of here, because they set a one million-dollar bail."

His mom and dad stared at each other for a moment, their shock as easy to read as words on a page. "One million dollars?"

Patrick nodded, only finding the voice to whisper his answer. "Yes."

 

With a shaky sigh, his mom shook her head. "B-But, we don't have a million dollars-"

"Darling-" His dad interjected, taking his wife's hand in an effort to calm her down, but it only throw wood on the fire.

"We wouldn't even have a million dollars if we sold our house- O-Or, three houses!"

"Darling." His father repeated, hand tightly laced with his wife's.

 

Patrick couldn't find the heart to watch as his mom leant back in her seat, sighing quietly and shakily.

There was a pause, an audible gulp, and then his mom mumbling her words. "I'm going to get some fresh air."

 

Patrick's head jerked up, his eyes brimmed with tears at this point. "Mom, please don't-" He tried calling after her, but in the end, he could only watch her shuffle away, head bowed and hands fidgeting with her purse.

 

Burying his face in his hands, Patrick kept his breathing heavy and slow in an effort to calm himself. And the moment he looked up, he was met by his dad's hard stare and his even harder words.

 

"I've had just about enough of your bullshit, Patrick."

 

Patrick choked on his own spit, recoiling in his seat and slouching under his dad's unwavering gaze. And just like that, he was five years old again, being told off for whatever dumb thing he'd done this time.

 

"I don't believe a word you've said." His dad continued, obviously trying to keep his voice level but not quite squashing the anger under it. "I was in the police force for long enough to know that nobody is charged with _four_ crimes for nothing."

 

Patrick really had to get better at lying.

 

"So start talking." His dad ended curtly, hands folding on the table as though he was conducting an interrogation.

 

Now, admittedly, Patrick didn't know how it had all happened in full, but he knew enough to convey it to his dad well enough.

 

"We changed the ownership and she faked the accounting. We finished the company. The money disappeared." Patrick looked up at his dad, eyes sore and red but dry. "But _she_ stole everything. It wasn't me."

"That's the truth?" His dad said again, but despite appearances, it wasn't a question at all. The older man leant forwards, eyes as hard as bedrock but voice on the edge of breaking out into a shout. "The same truth as when you told us you were on vacation?"

 

Patrick swallowed thickly. He knew that would come back to bite him.

 

"Or, the same truth as when you told your mother jail is like a summer camp?"

 

"I just don't want to hurt her." A tear escaped down Patrick's cheek and he sniffed, head still ducked and eyes on the floor between his knees. He couldn't bring himself to look up at his dad.

There was a moment of silence, the sound of an indignant huff, and finally, Patrick's dad hissed a string of words that felt like a punch in the gut.

 

"You've already hurt us both."

 

Patrick's hands were shaky- one more than the other, on account of torn ligaments, but he finally chanced a look upwards. His dad wore the same, blank expression, and that same burning disappointment was in his eyes.

 

"Listen, boy." His dad said, that harsh tone of scolding still lining every word. "Since you were born, I've tried to teach you _right_ , from _wrong_."

The older man moved forwards, eyes still burning into the same baby blues that were on Patrick. "And while it looks like I've failed-" Patrick hunched his shoulders a little more. "-When you know something is _wrong_ , you do not stand by like a wimp. You make a decision and you do something."

 

Patrick's teeth clamped down on the inside of his cheek, wincing when a spark of pain and the taste of iron hit him.

His dad was right, of course he was right-

 

"Maybe that's why you're here." Disgusted scowl on his face, Patrick's dad looked away with a sigh for a second, before he glared at Patrick with nothing but fury in his eyes. "Because you've never made a decision in your whole life!"

 

Patrick held back a sob. His dad was right; He was a wimp.

…But he was also extremely petty. And pretty vengeful, when he had to be.

 

In silence and with an ember of anger in his chest, Patrick reached into his pocket and tugged out his splint, securing it over his neck and over his wrist again- noting the shock on his dad's face.

 

Good.

 

He _should_ be shocked. Patrick had been in here for five days and he'd already been through too much shit to be insulted and scolded like a fucking child.

Wiping his tears from his eyes with his sleeve, Patrick looked up at his dad with a raised chin, keeping himself composed once and for all.

 

"Listen to me, dad. Then leave." Patrick nodded curtly, imitating the previous blankness on his dad's face- that was now only subdued shock.

"I'm innocent." He stared into his dad's eyes hard, making sure the words would not be forgotten. Then, with a shrug and a scrape of his chair, Patrick leant backwards. "Whatever you want to believe now, is up to you. I don't fucking care anymore."

 

As Patrick made a move to stand, his dad grabbed his free arm, tugging to bring him back down. As much as Patrick wanted to shrug his hand away and storm out, he wasn't trying to burn his bridges here.

Obliging his dad, Patrick sat down, and the older man didn't waste a second.

 

"By tomorrow, I'll know if that's true or not."

 

A small wave of visible confusion washed over Patrick, but a moment later, his dad was leaning in and whispering to him- his tone very different from before. "You have pockets, right?"

Patrick nodded, and his dad sighed. "Good, that'll do for now."

 

The older man leant back slightly, "Any problem you have in here can be solved with money." Patrick raised a brow, but his dad only stared at him and lowered his voice again. "There are 500 dollars under the table. Take it- but be discreet."

Patrick moved his healthy hand under the table, reaching out to his dad's- that quickly pressed a roll of papers into his palm.

 

"Put it in your pocket, but the second you get back to your cell, hide it properly."

Nodding, Patrick obliged, stuffing the roll of cash into his pocket and keeping his hand there.

 

The visitor's entry door creaked open, and the moment they saw Patrick's mom emerging- head still bowed, they both straightened up and Patrick hid his sling again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Everyone was staring at him, and he wasn't quite sure _why_.

Patrick glanced around nervously, not missing the amount of eyes glued to him. Some people had the decency to duck away when Patrick saw them, but others just kept on staring, mouths twisted into bemused smiles or irritated scowls.

 

Just as Patrick had been wondering what he'd done wrong, and just as he'd been ignoring the food on his tray, it was dragged away from him.

 

He jolted at the sound of the scraping metal, looking to his side to see an inmate he had never seen before. He smiled, nose wrinkling at Patrick in a disgusted way before he turned down to the tray, and spat into the food harshly.

 

Patrick hid his shock at first, but when the man slid the tray back over to him, his face dropped. "Eat it, rat."

 

Fuck. That's what this was about.

Patrick wasn't sure if explaining that no, he wasn't a rat would actually get him anywhere. So instead, Patrick shook his head, wrinkled his nose and pushed the tray back. "No."

 

The man seemed to take personal offense to that.

 

He shoved it back towards Patrick, mouth curled into a snarling scowl. "Eat it. Now."

 

Gazes from all over the canteen were heavy on his back, and Patrick couldn't help glancing around and seeing just how many people were staring him down.

Patrick exhaled sharply, knitting his brow and remembering his dad's words. When something is wrong, don't just stand by. Make a decision. Do something.

 

So, with a glare and a new scowl on his face, Patrick slid the tray back and barked an answer. "No."

The man hammered his fist on the table, leaning down and yelling at the top of his lungs. "FUCKING EAT IT."

 

The prisoners who seemed to have _stronger_ feelings towards him started hitting the metal benches with their knuckles, and soon, Patrick's thoughts were all drowned out by the flurry of bone clanging against metal.

 

Helplessly, Patrick looked up at the man again. His eye twitched and so did his scowl, lips saying out 'Eat it' without a word leaving his mouth.  
  
And just like that, all of Patrick's bravery was gone.

 

He turned back down to the tray, nose wrinkled angrily and eyes narrowed as he picked up the plastic fork, stabbing into the food. And now, he used that term extremely loosely.

Exhaling, he stared at the food on his fork, trying to ignore the glistening and trying to ignore the clattering of metal from every inch of the canteen.

 

Patrick gagged. He couldn't help it. This shit was disgusting, and y'know what? Patrick wasn't gonna do it.

 

He knew the prisoner to his side would either force feed him or beat him up, but screw it. He didn't care…Oh fuck, he sucked at lying, he sucked at lying so much-  
He couldn't get beaten up, he'd just have to eat this shit, oh god his life sucked-

 

"Who wants to go to solitary confinement first?!"

 

All noise stopped, all heads lowered back to their own conversations, and Patrick glanced over his shoulder.

 

Pete had strode through the canteen, eyes full of irritation and hands twitching into fists.

 

Patrick dropped his head back to the tray, breathing a trembling sigh of relief. He dropped the fork and shoved the tray away, glaring at the prisoner who had been at his side- and was now retreating to his own table.

 

"What's going on here?"

 

Patrick turned, eyes landing on Pete- who was squinting between Patrick and the tray.

 

Shit.

 

Desperately, Patrick shook his head. "I can't eat it- I can't-"

"For fuck's sake, not this again- Just eat it." Pete shook his own head in exhaustion, "Rules are rules, Stump-"

 

"They spat in his food."

 

Patrick glanced behind him, seeing a new prisoner from the table there looking up at Pete with a shrug.

When the prisoner turned away, Pete was quiet and his face was blank for a moment, before he moved towards Patrick and pushed the tray away himself.

 

"Stump?" The officer's voice was high, quiet and concerned. Patrick looked up immediately, his eyes were stinging and he was pretty sure they were damp again. For fuck's sake.

Pete glanced at the tray, disgust quickly flashing over his features before he looked at Patrick again, and concern replaced it. "Were you really going to eat it?"

 

Patrick shrugged miserably. "I guess."

Pete blinked, visibly surprised by the answer. " _Why_?"

 

Again, Patrick shrugged, his dad's words coming back at him full force. "Because I'm a wimp."

 

Sniffing, Patrick ducked his head, throwing up a hand weakly. "Tell me to take two million dollars of dirty money to a car park- and sure, I'll do it." He could feel the tears rolling down his cheeks at this point, and Pete was completely silent.

 

Patrick shrugged again, eyes narrowing and voice tinged with anger. Anger that was purely for himself. "Want me to register a bunch of properties I've never even seen in my name- Sure, just hand me the papers."

 

With a grunt, he furiously tore at the tears on his cheeks with his nails, infuriated by the gentle, wimpy way they trailed down his cheeks. "If I fall in love, better be with a girl who is gonna betray me and leave me to rot in jail for seven years. Same fucking thing as this." Patrick shoved at the tray in front of him.

 

Pete was still silent. That stung a little.

Patrick wondered if Pete would just scowl at him, look disgusted, walk away- he wondered if Pete would be disgusted by how pathetic and weak a person could be.

 

But he didn't walk away, so, in a last ditch attempt, Patrick looked up at Pete. "Have you ever let someone down? Someone who…who really cares about you?"

Pete said nothing. He only raised his brow and nodded truthfully.

 

"Well- I think I've let my dad down so much, I'm gonna be the reason he dies-"

 

"Stump-"

 

"No, no- He's had a bypass, and I don't think he'll survive any more _surprises_ from me." And with that, Patrick buried his face in his free hand, teeth clamping down on his lip stubbornly as to not make another pathetic sound.

 

There was a beat of silence, but before long, Pete's hand was ghosting over his shoulder, and he was speaking to him again, voice soft and quiet. "Stay calm."

 

"If you knew-"

Patrick bit his own tongue, looking up at Pete and nodding at the bench beside him. Pete seemed to get the message quite quickly, and subtly took a sat beside Patrick.

 

With a glance around the canteen, Patrick slid towards him.

He raised his eyes to Pete's, keeping his stare steady and idly noting how much green there was in his irises. Patrick bit down on the inside of his cheek, scolding himself for fawning over something as stupid as eye colour right now.

 

Lowering his voice, Patrick finally spoke. "If you knew about something that was going on in here, what would you do?"

Pete raised a brow, but Patrick only tried again. "Would you rat them out, or just keep it to yourself?"

 

There was a pause in which Pete gave him a long stare, before shaking his head quickly. "This isn't high school, dude- Things are serious in here."

"I know that." Patrick sighed, holding back a roll of his eyes; Trust an officer to give him such an obvious, 'lawful good' answer. Then again, he would've been a little worried if Pete had suggested the more clandestine option.

 

"The problem is, instead of sending you to the principal's office, they kill you." Patrick snapped, teeth clamping down on his abused cheek again.

He looked at Pete again, eyes wide and full of hope that the man might hear him out as a human, not a prisoner. "I only have two options: Tell the truth, and end up like Gerard…"

 

Pete's face visibly blanked and his eyes flooded with desperation at the name. But Patrick only turned to look at him square on. "Or shut up, and end up sliced open instead."

 

"Patrick-" That was the first time Pete had ever used his first name, and oddly enough, Patrick liked the sound of it when it came from the man.

Chewing on his lip, Pete glanced around the room and over his shoulder, before turning back to Patrick. He stared with wide, careful eyes, and spoke in a low, pressing voice that made Patrick want to tell him everything. "Patrick, what do you know?"

 

 

 

 

 

 

"The night Gerard died was my first night here."

 

"I know." The Governor said quietly. She was sat upright in her chair, and her hands were folded neatly on the rich wooden desk.

Patrick swallowed the lump in his throat. "Nobody sleeps on the first night."

 

The Governor's eyes jumped from Patrick, to Pete- who was stood in the corner of the room, watching with hard eyes.

Patrick had basically been dragged here by Pete, but regardless, he was glad he had. He was just so tired of secrets, of hiding everything, of covering up for assholes like Ryan and letting good people like Gerard die for nothing.

 

"Gerard was about to fall asleep when Ryan showed up." Patrick said, nodding to himself and replaying the night in his head. He remembered Gerard holding his hand, he remembered his advice, the tattoo on his wrist. All of it.

"He called out to him, and then they both went to go have a cigarette." Gerard didn't have cigarettes, but Ryan did. Patrick wondered what would be happening right now if Gerard hadn't accepted, if he'd just stayed in bed and shook Ryan off.

 

The bastard would've found another time to kill him, Patrick was sure about that.

 

"A couple of hours later, I started hearing noises. Doors, lights, footsteps- I guess that's when you found him." The Governor visibly tensed up, but with a rub of her hands and a gentle sigh, she leant forwards, eyes blinking at Patrick curiously. "And…Did you see or hear anybody else?"

 

"I didn't see anyone," Patrick said with a light shake of his head, before tilting it and staring forwards with a firm gaze. "But I heard some stuff." He shrugged, squinting to himself and trying to recall everything. "Footsteps and stuff like that, then the cells were closed, and-"

With a chew of his lip, Patrick raised his shoulders and nodded. "That's all.

 

The Governor wore a smile on her face. It was between kind, sad and full of pity all at once. She leant forwards again, sighing deeply in a breathy kind of relief. "Thank you for telling me this, Patrick."

Patrick only nodded politely, and the woman leant back again. Patrick could see the gears racing in her head as she worked out her next steps. "I promise I'll inform Inspector Dupre, and I'll ask him to be discreet."

 

"I don't care if you're discreet or not." Patrick shrugged lightly, burying the fear thrashing around in his stomach, throat and chest. It was half true, and it was half-trying-not-to-be-a-coward for once.

He exhaled curtly, straightening up in his seat. "There was a murder, and I just hope there will be justice. For Gerard."  


 

 


	3. Snitches Get Stitches

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, I'm really sorry about the wait for this one. I've had the flu recently, and I've basically spent one week in bed and one week high on painkillers lol. I hope this chapter is okay!

"I've just watched 11 hours of CCTV footage with the police."

 

The Governor was slumped in her chair, her eyes glazed over and her arms limp. Her words rang true; She looked exhausted enough.

 

The woman inhaled deeply, before all life snapped back into her. She straightened up, and her eyes brightened despite the bags beneath them. "And I've asked you here, because the police believe that Gerard's murderer was helped by an officer."

 

She looked between the three officers: Pete, Ray and Josh.

Pete honestly wondered why she was so persistent in bringing them, and only them, into her office and accusing them of helping out in a murder.

 

Was there really nobody else that could've helped the murderer?

They weren't the only officers in the whole of Cell Block 2 after all- why wasn't she pinning this shit on _Walker_ , or someone?

 

Apparently, Ray and Josh were thinking along the same lines.

 

They glanced between themselves and Pete, old looks of dull irritation in their eyes. They'd heard this all before, and it was getting tiring.

 

"The three of you were on duty that night. You were _in charge_." She'd been reading their minds, apparently.

The Governor tilted her head, her shrewd eyes flicking between each man. "One of you is an accessory to murder."

 

Pete noticed Josh squirm from the corner of his eye.

 

"Maybe there was a threat, or a bribe, or maybe someone just wanted to help. So-" The Governor kept her gaze unwavering and burning. "What _actually_ happened?"

 

And right then, Pete decided enough was enough.

 

Sure, this was his boss, but he was getting tired of being dragged away from work to listen to the woman's speeches and to be accused. There had to be rules against doing that to your employees, right?

 

Well, whether or not there were, he was tired.

 

He was tired of how Ray seemed jumpier every day. He was tired of how Josh was getting more and more quiet every day. And he hated feeling guilty when he hadn't done a god damn thing.

 

"We're all innocent until proven guilty." There was tangible anger behind his voice, and he could tell the Governor didn't like it.

Pete only cocked his head at the woman. "Don't you think so, m'am?"

 

Despite his suspicions that she would kick him out, lose her temper, or fire him on the spot- the Governor just nodded. "Of course."

She paused then, eyes flitting over each of them. "You've been asked to testify before Inspector Dupre. Tomorrow"

  
Pete held back a sigh, and he noticed Josh and Ray do something similar.

He'd wanted to stay out of this investigation as much as he could, but yet, here they were, being thrust into it headfirst and without warning.

 

"A judge will be consulted, and we'll see what happens." Her eyes scanned through them and into their souls, almost daring them to just confess to the crimes she was convinced they'd committed before judges and courts got involved.

 

None of them gave in though, and after a long silence, she clicked her tongue lightly. "If you have nothing else to say, you can go back to your duties." The Governor stared Pete now, stare solid and deep. What she said didn't match the suppressed fury in her eyes.

 

"Thank you."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Authorisation."

  
Pete stepped towards the truck, stopping beside the driver's door with clipboard in hand. He looked up, squinting against the pale sun that had been blotted out by clouds.  
The driver said nothing, only handing a form over. Pete took it, eyes squinting even further at the bright page and the scribbled words when a voice interrupted his hand.

  
"Pete?"

 

"Hm?" Pete spared a narrow glance, quickly spotting Josh by his side. Everything about him screamed 'nervous' right now. He looked paler than usual too.

 

Pete said nothing about it though, and soon enough Josh was mumbling to him quietly.

"One of us is being accused of _murder_ -" Josh began, noticeably hiding a waver in his voice.

 

Pete shook his head quickly, still squinting down at the form. " _Accessory_ to murder-"

 

"It's the _same_ thing."

 

Pete held his tongue on the correction and only shrugged. "So?"

There was a slightly choked sound, before Josh pushed him by the shoulder gently and out of the earshot of the truck driver, opening his mouth to say something before another voice beat him to the punch.

 

"Uh, excuse me?"

 

The truck driver stared at them from his seat, but Pete weakly raised a dismissive hand. "Just- Stay there, for a sec-"

He looked back down to Josh with a stern blink. "Josh, what's wrong with you?"

 

"I just-" Josh's Adam's apple bobbed but Pete shook his head quickly, a small insulted feeling creeping under his skin. "Do you think it was me? Do you think I would've let someone be tortured and murdered? D'you think I would've _helped_?"

 

Josh shook his head wildly. "Dude- it sounds dumb when you say it like that-"  
"That's 'cause it is!" Pete threw a hand up, while his mouth was hanging open and a small spike of indignation and disappointment rose through him. Shit, did Josh really think that little of him?

 

"Well, I don't know, Pete. Okay?" Josh's voice dropped, suddenly hard and laced with a shadow of anger. "You haven't told me anything! You just treat me like a kid-"  
Pete rolled his eyes so hard he thought they were going to fall out. "Oh my god, when have I _ever_ -"

  
"Why were you fired from the force?"

  
Pete squinted, visible confusion crossing his face. "What…?"  
Josh shrugged, crossing his arms and raising his chin with a frown. "You heard me."

 

Pete only stared at his friend. The spike of disappointment was more like a spear now, and yet, he could understand. He didn't like what Josh was implying, but he could understand why he was implying it.

  
With a light shrug, Pete stared Josh in the eye. "I wasn't fired. I quit."

Josh's eyes widened slightly, a look of regret crossing them, but before he could even think about apologizing, Pete moved past him, finally signed the form and handed it back over to the truck driver.  


As the truck moved away beyond prison gates, Pete glanced over his shoulder at Josh, raising an eyebrow. "Any more questions?"  
The other man only shook his head, and Pete turned away again, busying himself with filling in another column of the table on his clipboard. The silence didn't last, it never did.

 

"Pete- I just…" Josh stepped up beside him again, eyes a lot softer and voice a lot more desperate. "I just can't keep being dragged in there to- to keep being accused o-of-"  
  
Pete huffed somewhat sarcastically. "And what, d'you think _I_ enjoy it?"

 

Josh's eyes narrowed into slits, and once again, he crossed his arms tightly. " _No_. But I _do_ think you enjoy arguing with the Governor."  
Head jerking up indignantly, Pete opened his mouth to argue, but at the look Josh gave him, he closed it and huffed. "Maybe I do, but I don't know what you want me to do about it."

 

Josh fell into silence, Pete looked back down at his work, and a long beat of silence followed.

 

"Pete?" Shattering the peace again, Josh rounded on him, dark eyes wide and his stare steady. "I know it wasn't me." He said firmly, nodding to himself. "And, if it wasn't you…then, that leaves…" He looked up at Pete. "Ray. Ray's switched sides."

 

Pete bristled all over, the shiver tingling over his spine attacking the rest of him and leaving goosebumps in its wake.  
No, he couldn't believe that. He couldn't accept it.

Staring at his friend, Pete only shook his head. "I don't think so."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sitting on the metal benches, Ray stared at his locker, hands together and pressed over his mouth.

 

Things were escalating, they were getting out of hand, and _fast_.

He didn't know what to do anymore, but he did know what was most important. Tell somebody, stay quiet- it was all the same to him, what he really needed to do was keep his family safe. Everything else could deal with itself.

 

A door opening to his right made his eyes unstick from the metal. He turned, watching none other than Pete stride in and make a beeline for his own locker.

A time passed where they didn't acknowledge each other, they just stared forwards instead, eyes locked on their respective targets until Pete glanced over his shoulder.

  
"Ray?"

 

Holding back a sigh, Ray dropped his hands and raised his head, giving his co-worker a tight smile that said 'Go ahead'.

Pete seemed to bite the inside of his cheek, before closing his picture-less locker and turning towards his co-worker fully. "I wanted to talk to you."

  
There was a spike of fear in Ray's stomach, but with a clear of his throat, he smothered it and nodded amicably. "Sure."

There was only a beat of silence before Pete moved towards him, voice dropping to a whisper. "Look- Josh didn't delete the security tapes, and neither did I." Pete motioned his head towards Ray's locker, "And I know you've just had kids."

 

Ray felt everything inside him freeze.

 

Was this it? Was this how he'd go? Oh god, he couldn't go to prison- he couldn't be stuck in a place like this, on the _other_ side of the bars.

  
Perhaps thanks to the petrified look in Ray's eyes, Pete sighed gently and took a seat next to him on the bench. "Look at me."

 

Ray exhaled shakily, but complied, staring to his side and no longer thinking about making excuses.

Pete leant forwards slightly.

 

"If you did it, don't say a word to anyone."

 

What- Pete wasn't going to rat him out?

Ray blinked in confusion, but Pete only shook his head again. "Anyone could've gotten into the control room that day. Anyone could've put magnets in there- They can't prove anything."

 

And just like that, Ray dropped his face into his hands with a shudder.

 

This wasn't supposed to happen. He hadn't known what Ross was going to do- Oh god, someone was dead because of him, but he hadn't known. He swore, he hadn't known-

He'd been _so sure_ it was just going to be a riot, or an escape attempt- but not _torture_. Not _murder_.  
  
"They- He-" Ray exhaled shakily, raising his head but keeping his eyes tightly closed. "Someone got into my house and- They rec-" Even saying it felt like bile on his tongue, so instead, Ray shook his head and looked over at Pete.  
  
"Somebody's watching me. On the outside. Somebody's watching my family, Pete." He choked on another sigh, dropping his forehead into a hand and hunching his shoulders. "I'm fucked. I'm so fucked-"

 

"Forget about everything, Ray."

 

Ray could only shake his head. Someone was dead because of him- and now, Pete was asking him to stay quiet? Someone would never get justice if he did that.

…Then again, what good was justice to a dead man? But he hated himself for thinking like that-

 

"If the cops ask you, you saw _nothing_."

 

"How can I just ignore this? Just- Just let him get away with everything?" Ray straightened up with a start, eyes narrowed at Pete in a glare. "What kind of person would I be?"

Pete blinked, caught off guard for a moment before he exhaled softly and his eyes found the plastic floor.

 

"You can be the kind of person who confesses, and then leaves his wife and children to go serve at least ten years in prison."

 

Oh god, the thought of that was unbearable.

Ray resisted the urge to bury his face in his hands again. He was stuck, completely and utterly stuck.

When Pete continued, he continued with a much softer voice and a heap of sympathy glittering through his eyes.

  
"Or, you can be the kind of person who forgets, goes home to his family, and gets on with his life."

 

Ray gave into his urge, head falling into his palms in a second and fingers caging over his eyes.

His morality screamed at him to go one way, and logic pleaded for him to go the other- the question was: Which one did he listen to?

 

Once he'd somewhat managed to compose himself, Ray sat up again, consciously dropping his shoulders and staring forwards- straight at his locker again.  
He thought of the pictures of his family on the other side, and as soon as the images flashed through his head, he knew Pete was right. He wasn't going to leave his family, it wasn't an option.

 

He glanced at the man beside him and gave a nod. Pete spared him a tiny smile, but it faltered for a moment and it didn't go unnoticed. Ray raised a brow.

Pete shook his head softly, and after a pause, he looked up solemnly. "Who asked you to do it?" Ray sighed shakily, and Ray spat out his answer like dirt. "Ryan Ross."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Patrick couldn't remember the last time he'd been to a church.

  
Well, technically, this wasn't a _church_ , but, it was close enough; Chapels, churches, cathedrals- what was the difference _really_? They all served the same purpose.

 

He leant back on the chair he sat on, keeping silent as the priest behind the simple altar read from the bible on an equally simple stand.

 

Now that he thought about it, this might've been the first mass Patrick had come to _willingly_.

His parents dragging him to church in his Sunday best when he'd been a kid didn't count as 'voluntary' in his opinion. And really, this was the only time he'd wanted to be there. Somewhat.  
  
It wasn't like he was enjoying the service, it was more like he was doing it for Gerard; It was for him, after all.

 

Enduring reading after reading, and dealing with people glaring at him from across the seats wasn't pleasant, but there was a sense of respect Patrick was still trying to uphold here.

 

Although, Patrick really did have to wonder if Gerard had actually been religious, or, if he would've wanted something like this _at all_. He hadn't seemed the type, but then again, Patrick had known him for just little under a full day.

 

"In this time of grief," The minister began, looking up from the leather-bound bible and towards the sea of inmates. "Gerard should be remembered by those who were his good friends."

 

Patrick cocked his head, glancing around the room for signs of movement and wondering who'd been asked to the front by the innocuous phrase.

  
Maybe Mikey, Gerard's brother, would go. Then again, Andy had said they'd grown apart…But then _again_ , they'd been _brothers_. Surely petty disputes could be put aside for-

 

Patrick had to stop himself from gasping when he saw who strode to the pulpit.

 

A flash of orange, Ryan was standing there- back straight and big eyes looking downright miserable. "I've been, thinking about you all day, today, Gerard. All the time, actually."

 

Patrick's mouth dropped open.

 

No way. No fucking way.

 

Gerard's goddamn _murder_ _er_ was 'remembering' him at his own goddamn memorial-

 

"I guess, it uh-" Ryan swallowed thickly, his Adam's apple bobbing as what could only be tears slid down his cheeks. "I guess it takes years, to- to find a…a good friend."

 

Patrick couldn't believe his eyes. Ryan was crying. Actually fucking crying, this was completely fucked-

  
"-but, in just a few months-" Ryan shook his head, wiping at his eyes with the back of a hand. "I'll always remember you, Gerard. I'll always admire you." He glanced upwards, towards the light fixtures. "Always."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

No matter how hard Patrick tried, the image of Ryan stood at that pulpit, crying crocodile tears and mourning Gerard, couldn't and wouldn't leave his mind.

  
It infuriated him, it made his jaw lock, his skin redden and his blood boil; He couldn't believe how insanely _fucked up_ you'd have to be to murder someone, and then lament their loss at their memorial.  
  
Patrick buried his face in his pillow, nose wrinkling at the hospital, sterilized smell that clung to the plastic-like fabric.

 

He needed to sleep, he'd feel better by tomorrow- he was sure of it.

 

Still, Patrick had been having trouble sleeping since he'd stepped foot in this prison, he wondered how long it'd take for the bags to start forming under his eyes.

Even when he did manage to fall into sleep, something would drag him out of it at the small hours of the morning, and he'd spent the rest of the night tossing and turning.

 

Just as Patrick sighed softly, resigning himself to a night of thinking too much, a voice rang out that completely caught him off guard.

 

"Trohman, Trohman…Ah, here it is- Joe Trohman."

 

At that very sound, Patrick leant up from where he lay, squinting at the shadowy figures behind the pale curtains that separated his bed from everything else.

 

"Three cracked ribs, a sprained shoulder, a few cuts but nothing too major- and your collarbone's bruised. Got all that?"

 

There was a tired sigh, and then the voice came again. "That's your bed- you'll be there for a few days, but, we'll try and move you back to your cell as soon as possible."

 

Interest fully piqued, Patrick quietly got out of bed, careful to make sure the springs didn't creak. He crept towards the shadows behind the curtains, and timidly pulled one back.  
Peeking through the gap, Patrick inhaled slowly as he spotted two figures.

 

There was a man who was likely a nurse- the medical uniform was a dead giveaway, but opposite him was _Joe_.  
It wasn't like Patrick had forgotten about Joe, but he'd just assumed the man had been sent to solitary, but-

 

"Can I go to sleep now?" Joe yawned, rubbing at one of his eyes lazily.

 

But, despite everything, there he was.

 

Patrick noticed the bandages under his collar.

 

He squinted, wondering if he'd mistaken them for- No, those were definitely bandages. Shit, when had that happened? It couldn't have been in the canteen fight, right?

  
The nurse nodded once and weakly, gesturing towards the empty bed a short distance away and quickly moving away- leaving Joe where he stood.

As the prisoner made a move towards his bed, Patrick opened the curtain a little further. "Joe?"

  
Joe turned, a look of surprise on his face quickly being replaced by confusion. "Patrick?" He squinted. "Why are you here?"

Patrick chuckled nervously, holding up his bandaged wrist so that it was in view. Joe flashed a grimace, "How'd that happen?"

  
At that moment, Patrick seriously considered lying- saying that it had been the result of some fight or scuffle, but he doubted Joe would buy it; He'd just have to live with the embarrassing truth.

 

"Press-ups."

 

Joe snorted, a small amused smile playing at the corners of his lips. "Of course."

Faking indignation, Patrick gaped and made an offended noise. "What's that supposed to mean?" Joe didn't answer, he only chuckled and moved to the bed beside Patrick's.

 

Patrick raised an eyebrow, gesturing over at Joe's bed with his healthy hand. "I thought _that_ was your bed."

"Nah." Joe said simply, the creaking of a bed telling Patrick he'd already claimed what was 'his'. With a shrug to himself, Patrick dropped the curtain and moved to back towards his own bed.

 

It had turned out that, despite what he'd said to the nurse, Joe hadn't been in the mood for sleeping. Instead, he decided to talk to Patrick for as long as he could without either of them passing out.

  
"So," Joe began, visibly wincing as he sat on his bed. "Was my sacrifice worth something?" He chuckled, but Patrick only felt guilt pooling in his stomach.

 

"That happened in the canteen?" Patrick raised a brow, still not quite being able to believe it. Were the officers even allowed to beat them that badly?

 

"Yeah," Joe hissed, lying down with a wince and a hand over his ribs. "Walker messed me up pretty bad."

 

Patrick felt his heart sink. The only reason Joe was sitting in the sick bay with what were probably cracked ribs was because of Patrick and that stupid key card.

 

"Hey." Joe shrugged up at him before shaking his head. "It's not that bad. It was for a good cause."

 

Patrick nodded, not fully convinced, but the other man only dropped his head back onto the pillow. "This is a lot better than solitary, anyway."

With a hum, Patrick nodded again. He'd have to agree, he was much happier in the sick bay than in that tiny padded cell.

 

"You do anything today?" Joe quipped, one arm behind his head and eyes flicking over to Patrick. The other man shrugged and shook his head. "I've just been _here_ , really."

Maybe mentioning the memorial and Ryan's reading would take the conversation to dark, angry places Patrick didn't want it to go.

 

"You do anything _yesterday_?"

 

Patrick raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

 

"Hey, I've been stuck in here for five days and it's boring as hell."

 

Sighing deeply, Patrick shrugged and decided to give Joe something a little interesting to talk about. Patrick owed him. "My parents came to see me yesterday." Patrick bristled at the memory. "First time they've seen me here."

 

Joe hummed, a soft look of concern crossing his face. "And how'd it go?"

Patrick shrugged weakly, not quite wanting to go into details. "It was okay." He looked over at Joe.

 

He did not looked convinced.

 

So, with an exhale, Patrick decided that telling his friend the truth was the best way forwards. "I had a shitty conversation with my dad. But- I-" He shrugged again, "Maybe it's weird, but- in a way, it's like, the most real conversation we've ever had."

 

"Well, that's something." Joe chimed in, obviously trying to find the silver lining to the whole shitty situation.

 

"I guess." Patrick nodded slightly, tilting his head to one side. "He was Chicago P.D. Y'know? A superintendent? I guess that's why he's always been a little strict when it comes to rul-"

 

"No fucking way." Joe made a sound that was half indignant and half shocked, and he stared at Patrick like he didn't quite believe it.

With a blink, Patrick nodded timidly and smiled just as nervously, and at that, Joe conceded, settling back down and staring up at the ceiling with cloudy eyes.

 

"Chicago P.D." Joe repeated, tasting it on his tongue and judging how real it sounded. Eventually, he huffed and spoke again, subdued disbelief lacing every word. "Those were the guys that caught me. Two bastards beat the shit out of me. Broke my fucking nose-"

 

' _Bastards_ '. Patrick wasn't sure how he felt about the word being thrown at men like his dad.  


Eyes clearing, Joe glanced back at Patrick, suddenly biting his tongue at the disheartened look on Patrick's face. "Uh- shit, I'm sorry, dude."

 

Patrick shook his head quickly, trying a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "It's fine. Don't worry about it."

 

"I mean, I'm sure your dad's cool-"

 

"There's all kinds." Mind thrumming with thoughts of his dad, Patrick shrugged, turning onto his side and pressing his cheek into the pillow. "My dad's not much better." He admitted with a sniff.

His dad had never liked telling horror stories about his job, but sometimes, Patrick could tell the work had a lasting effect on his dad.

 

For a long moment, Joe only stared at him. He said nothing and bit his tongue for the longest time before he sighed again. "Hey."

It wasn't like he'd be able to sleep tonight, might as well keep talking.

 

Patrick gave a tight smile and raised his eyebrows in questioning, but Joe didn't answer.

Instead, he stood with a start- wincing again, and walked over to the edge of Patrick's bed. He nudged the other man in the shoulder. "Wanna go ride the wheelchairs?"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Come in."

 

"Excuse me?" Patrick peeked his head through the office door, trying a tight smile when he saw Doctor Reynolds.

 

An early morning doctor's appointment wasn't ideal- he would've rather stayed in bed, convincing himself to fall asleep, but this had been long overdue.  
Since he'd arrived here, sleeping had been hard- being awake had been harder; He needed help.

  
"Ah, Patrick." The man gestured a hand towards the empty seats in front of his desk. Obliging, Patrick stepped inside and sat down. "What can I do for you?" The doctor asked, raising his head from his papers and smiling politely.

 

Drugs. Patrick wanted drugs. And a lot of them.

 

He couldn't sleep, he couldn't eat, he couldn't even _think_ sometimes- There was a constant pit in his stomach, his brain was always overactive and screeching worries and horrible possibilities at him.

 

"I uh…I was wondering if you could get- If you could _prescribe_ me something for…for anxiety?"

 

Reynolds' smile broadened and he nodded smoothly. "Of course."

He paced over to the medicine cabinets, and Patrick could hardly believe it had been that easy.

 

Didn't he need proof or something? Wasn't he supposed to do an analysis, or ask about his medical history? Patrick had really been bracing himself for five pages of invasive questions.

 

"Now," Reynolds began again, turning with a pill box in his hand. "You'll need to take it here. Medicine doesn't leave the infirmary."

He walked back over to Patrick and leant on the desk, spreading his legs and trapping Patrick between them. He opened the box and pulled out a few of the pills.  
  
He moved to hand them over, but as Patrick reached a hand out, Reynolds pulled back.

  
The older man smiled widely, blinking down at the younger. "Of course, you'll need to sign up for therapy. Xanax isn't a long term solution."

 

Fuck.

 

Patrick hadn't _actually_ wanted to sign up to therapy. He'd only entertained the idea when he'd been lying to Pete yesterday, but-

 

Reynolds raised his brow, smile dropping a little.

  
Screw it. He needed these pills- he could fake his way through a few therapy sessions for them.  
  
"Of course." He nodded quickly, plastering a smile onto his face and sighing in relief when the pills finally landed in his palm.

 

"Take them here."

 

Patrick blinked, and he glanced around for a glass of water. Reynolds said nothing however, he only watched Patrick with a raised brow and waiting written all over him.

 

So, Patrick obliged.

He struggled a little, swallowing pills without water wasn't exactly pleasant, and they burnt and scratched his throat as he forced them down. His eyes were teary afterwards, and Patrick could only press a hand to his neck with a wince.

 

Reynolds was watching him, unwavering. Jaw loose and eyes looser still.

Patrick cleared his throat softly, ducking his eyes away. Weird.

  
There was silence for the longest time, and finally, Patrick had had enough of being stared at like a museum exhibit.

"I'm done." He informed the man, scooting his chair back and shifting his eyes around back to the doctor.

Reynolds grinned, nodded, and stood up. "Good. But, remember-" He raised his brow in a lecturing way, "A dose everyday and therapy on Wednesdays."

  
Patrick could only chuckle nervously and make a beeline towards the door, "Okay, thanks." He hated how awkward and nervous he sounded.

Reynolds' smile curled at the corners like burning paper. "See you tomorrow, Patrick."

 

He could only laugh awkwardly again, ducking outside and shutting the door behind him.

 

Patrick walked back towards his bed, ignoring the sinking feeling in his stomach and the squeamish goosebumps that prickled over his neck.

He glanced back at the doctor's office door and he felt a chill rise over him. That had been weird. Too fucking weird. And- oh fuck, now he'd have to go there every day; 'Medicine doesn't leave the infirmary.'

 

Patrick groaned. He tugged the curtains around his bed closed just enough so that the office was out of view and out of mind.

With that done, he moved back over to his bed, sparing a glance at Joe who was lying on his own mattress, nose buried in a book.

 

"What's up?" When he heard the springs creak, Joe looked up from his pages.

 

Patrick as he sat on the edge of the bed in silence, his hands curled around the edge, his head ducked, and his eyes squinted at the floor.

He glanced up at Joe with a frown on his mouth.

 

"That guy's really weird."

 

"Who? Reynolds?" Joe questioned, but Patrick only nodded. Humming absently, Joe looked back down at his book. "Why? What did he do?"

  
"He just- He said something and it just-" Patrick sighed and shook his head, neglecting to tell Joe about the whole thing. He didn't want to relive it right now. "Just rubbed me the wrong way, I guess."

 

Joe clicked his tongue, blue eyes firmly planted on his book again. "Well, I'm pretty sure your type is his weak spot."

 

_Type?_

 

Patrick's brow dropped, eyes wide and a sudden whirlpool biting at his stomach. "What?"

 

"He likes young, short-" Joe squinted over at Patrick for a brief moment. "-usually kinda _small_ 'jailbirds'." He shrugged, flipping over to another page. "It's a power thing. He's been doing it for years. He's gone after a lot of us."

 

Patrick froze for a split second, before every inch of him curled with disgust.

Oh god- oh god, he'd assumed the doctor was _nice_ , or just _friendly_ , but…Oh fuck, this made that tranquilizer so much worse-

 

"I know it's gross, but Patrick, honestly-" Joe raised his brow at the other man, "The more he likes you, the easier time you'll have in here."

 

Patrick made a disgusted noise, outrage flaring up inside him. How could Joe even suggest that to him? "Are you saying I should _humor_ him?"

 

Joe shrugged. "It'll make your life easier. Just sayin'."

 

"But- I don't care if my life is 'easy'! The-" Patrick glared over his shoulder for a second, pure hate being fired at the doctor's office door. "He is _disgusting_."

  
"Gotcha." Joe said, more focus being piled onto his book now.  
  
"I'm not sucking up to that guy!" Patrick's ranted, more to himself than to Joe. "Not to him, not to the Governor, not to Ryan- and, by the way…" Patrick turned back to the other man, nodding curtly his way, an over-confident, anger-fueled smile broadening across his face.

 

"I reported him to the Governor."

 

Joe froze.

 

There was silence for a moment, and then, with an odd calmness, Joe dropped his book and slowly looked up at Patrick.

It was unnerving, but Patrick only nodded again, determined to keep his gusto high. He'd had enough of backing down. "I told her he came for Gerard."

 

There was a long pause in which Joe did nothing but stare. Mouth parted, eyes blank, and skin looking a little more sallow than usual. But, after a little while more, Joe spoke up quietly.

 

"Are you insane?"

 

The reaction was so subdued and quiet that it chilled his bones. But, with a desperate grasp on his confidence, Patrick gulped and shook his head with a shrug. "So what? He just likes to scare people by-"  
  
"No. No, no-" Joe stood, moving to stand in front of Patrick and looking down at his shorter friend. "He doesn't scare. What he says, he does."

  
Patrick squinted, unrelenting and refusing to be afraid of Ryan- despite the shakiness in his hands and the maelstrom in his stomach screaming at him otherwise. "No- It can't- He's a prisoner! You're all just terrified of him, b-because-"

 

"Ryan is the king of this prison." Joe said, voice mostly neutral but there was a definite fear behind his words. "You don't get that title for nothing."

 

Shit. Shit- this was making Patrick feel like he'd fucked up. But- but he hadn't fucked up, right? No, he'd done the right thing.

He'd made a decision, he'd acted- just like his dad had told him too.

 

"He's still _in prison_." Patrick said a matter-of-factly. "And- And, they can still put him in solitary, o-or-"

 

At this point, he was trying to convince himself more than he was Joe.

"Patrick, listen to me." Joe planted his hands on Patrick's shoulders, holding him solidly and at an arm's length as he stared at him firmly.

"Ryan's husband is a serial killer. He's killed at least 20 people- he's wanted by fucking Interpol for fuck's sake, and the worst part? He's like a well trained dog, or something. He does whatever Ryan tells him to."

Joe scanned Patrick's face, that was slowly paling further at every new word that he spoke.

 

"And that's your problem. Because now- if he finds out what you said, he's not only going after you. He's sending that psychopath after your family."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"I'd like to talk to you." The chief said quietly, before his dark eyes shifted over to Mikey and Dallon, both on their own bunks in silence. "In private."

 

Ryan squinted.

This guy wasn't really in a position to be making demands.

 

So, with a shrug, Ryan raised his brow at Toro. "Mikey's like my brother. Dallon's good at keeping his mouth shut. They stay."   


The chief bristled visibly, but he said nothing and just nodding slightly. "Fine."

The man took a glance over his shoulder, then to the other two prisoners on the right bunk. He looked nervous, he practically radiated it.

  
A smile twitched at the corners of Ryan's mouth. Brendon had done a good job.

 

Breaking into the house had been Ryan's idea, but filming the babies like that? That was genius. He knew there was a reason he'd married that idiot.

 

"They've opened an investigation into Gerard's murder."

 

Ryan's face dropped, annoyance itching under his skin as the chief tore him away from happier thoughts.

He sighed, intending to shrug, but Toro was just _too_ intent on interrupting him. "They're going to interrogate me."

The chief took a deep but silent breath, chin digging into his collarbone before he looked up again firmly. "I wanted you to know I won't say anything. You have my silence."  
  
Ryan eyed the man for a second. He was holding eye contact. His breathing was steady. His shoulders were drooped, his skin was paler than usual, and his eyes were webbed in red. He'd probably been crying recently.

 

Everything about him screamed 'truth', so Ryan only shrugged and echoed the man's words back to himself.

 

"Fine."

 

The chief blinked, obviously a little confused by the curt response. He tried again, clearing his throat and shrugging lightly. "I just wanted you to know that."

 

Ryan held back a sigh. He'd always hated simpering people, they were just plain irritating. "And now I know that." He raised his head at the man fully, smiling and making sure his eyes wrinkled at the corners. " _Bye_."

Toro left at that, pacing outside with plenty of glances over his shoulder.  


Ryan sighed and lay back down, picking at the loose strings on the seams of his uniform. There wasn't much to do today; No courses, no classes, no-

 

"Ryan, I need to talk to you."

 

With a slight confusion, Ryan sat up, eyes landing on-

 

The rat.

 

Or, 'Patrick', he supposed.

 

Well, he had to commend the guy on his timing. Ryan had been meaning to track him down.

 

"It's your lucky day, rat." Ryan's face curled into a slight scowl and jumped down from his bunk with ease. "I need to talk to you too."

 

He sauntered towards the man, turning his scowl into a smile. "I have a reason for you to keep quiet."

Wasting time wouldn't do him any good. The sooner he scared this brat into silence, the sooner he could move on with his day.

 

He clicked his tongue, tilting his head to one side. "Actually, I have two." Ryan looked back down at the man, smiling broadly again.

 

"David and Patricia."

 

Patrick's face instantly blanked with white hot fear, and Ryan couldn't help the smile that fought at his mouth. "Those names ring a bell?"

The blond stared at him in silence, the terror that had been on his face disappearing and being replaced by hard eyes and a furrowed brow.

 

"Y'know-" Ryan continued, laying a hand on Patrick's shoulder amicably. "I've heard they have a beautiful backyard, and that your dad's building a summerhouse."

There was another worried flash in Patrick's eyes, but he managed to suppress it quickly.

  
"It'd be a shame if he didn't get to enjoy it after all that hard work." Ryan pouted, easily hiding his pride at Brendon's little reconnaissance mission.

  
Now, Ryan had really been expecting Patrick to back down at this point. He'd been expecting simpering, pleading, begging, etc.

A soft, appallingly white, middle class guy like him would buckle under the first threat, right?

 

But instead, Patrick did the complete opposite.

 

And Ryan was slightly impressed.  
  
Instead, Patrick stared him straight in the eye, all blank terror melting from his face in seconds as he growled out his statement. "He _will_ enjoy it."

Ryan raised his brow coolly, opening his mouth to say something else that would hopefully scare Patrick into silence, but he hardly had a chance to make a syllable before-

 

"I told the Governor you came for Gerard the night he died."

 

Shit.  
  
_Fuck_.   
  
Oh for fuck's sake- Ryan almost groaned at the words, both fury and paralyzing fear coursing through him.

By sheer force _alone_ , he forced himself to stay passive, cool and collected as he stared back into narrowed powder blue eyes.

 

"And now, that information is with Inspector Dupre."

 

Ryan's jaw clenched. This little shit was just making things so much worse for himself. He was going to tell Brendon to deal with his family _slowly_ if he kept this shit up.

 

"Anything you do to me or my family is just gonna prove that you're a murderer. You'll be proving yourself guilty." Patrick said solidly, brow still knitted and mouth set into a straight line.

 

Ryan stared at the man, making sure to collect his shattered thoughts properly before he even tried threatening or snapping at Patrick. He needed to be careful now; The police were involved, and that was a whole other ballpark.

 

Patrick's bravery didn't last very long though.  
Soon enough, Patrick's head had ducked and he was back-pedaling at the speed of light. "T-They only know you went for a cigarette with him." The brat couldn't help his stutters, Ryan tried not to roll his eyes as the simpering started; Patrick had shown potential, what a shame.

 

"They have nothing on you." The blond repeated, eyes wide and hands shakier than they'd been before.

 

Ryan grabbed a fistful of Patrick's hair, yanking his head back and trying his best not to growl at him like an animal.

"Let me go- They don't have any proof, fuck-!" Patrick freed himself with one well placed jerk away, and once again, Patrick had surprised him.

There was only seething rage on Patrick's face- that same anger Ryan had seen in people much more dangerous than _him_.

 

There was so much potential there; Maybe in another life, where Patrick hadn't _ratted him out_ _to the fucking cops_ , they could've been friends.

 

"I did this to be safe." Patrick hissed, but at this point, Ryan was sure he was trying to convince himself instead.

Ryan couldn't hold back his outrage as he shuddered a gasp and a laugh all at once, body stiffening as fury gripped his stomach again.

  
He swallowed deeply, looking up at Patrick and cracking a small smile. "Maybe you feel safe, but we'll see how your dad feels, huh?" Ryan jerked a nod at the cell door, "Get out."

 

The rat obliged, ducking away in silence just after.

As soon as Patrick was out of sight, having trudged down the metal stairs in silence, Ryan felt positively boneless.

 

He fell back into the empty bunk below his own, frenzied, indignant gasps escaping him one after the other. Fuck. Fuck- oh god, he was so fucked. All of it was fucked. His entire plan was ruined, and it was all thanks to that little _shithead_.

 

The sound of footsteps made him sigh, but he didn't have to look up to see who's they were- he already knew. Mikey always stepped in to pick up the pieces in moments like this.

  
"I have two loose ends." Ryan said calmly, sitting back up and rubbing a hand over his mouth. Mikey said nothing, he only nodded quietly.  
  
"One says he won't speak. And the other one already did." Ryan couldn't help a laugh, "Which one of them is gonna fuck me over first?"

 

"The rat. My money's on him." Mikey's face twisted into an ugly scowl for a moment, but his face quickly blanched as he looked down at Ryan- instead, his eyes filling with an odd sparkle of hope and his mouth twitching at their corners. "Let me take care of him."

 

Ryan shook his head instantly. He didn't even consider it.

  
Mikey was too impulsive for his own good, and 'taking care of it' would just mean broken legs and a fucked up nose- maybe some knock-off Joker scars.

 

No, no…Ryan needed to do something _big_. He needed to scare that brat stupid.

 

He looked up at Mikey with a nod and a knitted brow. "I'll deal with this the quick way."

 

Ryan rose and dove over to one of the chairs that sat behind the table in the middle of the cell.  
He crouched down, pulling the rubber guard off one of the legs and quickly catching the bundle that fell out.

 

It was a mobile, hidden in a sock and then stashed away in a chair- one of the few places the guards never thought to look. They simply lacked creativity.

  
Ryan smiled down at the phone; It was reserved exclusively for emergencies, and even though emergencies were usually messy and just all round unpleasant, there was _one_ good thing about them.

He turned the phone on quickly, squinting at the screen as he quickly typed in the emergency number. Blowing out a breath, Ryan pressed the mobile to his ear and waited.

 

"Hey, Ry!"

 

Brendon.

God, he'd never get tired of hearing his voice. Every time he picked up, alive and well- and not in police custody, Ryan always felt his heart leap.

 

"Urie." Ryan huffed bemusedly, with a smile on his face.

"How are you? Are things okay over there?" He could practically hear the grin behind his husband's voice. He rolled his eyes; Honestly, how 'okay' could he been in prison?

"Brendon, I don't have time for small talk. We have a problem." He sighed, shying away from the open door of his cell to make sure no officers spied him.

He needed to fix this. And quickly.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

All the phones were busy.

The one fucking day he really needed a phone, and they were all occupied.

Patrick looked around the room with wide eyes, waiting for someone to move away, but when no one did, he decided to take things into his own hands.

 

He surged towards one of the less-intimidating men at one of the phones, "I need to make a call, I'm begging you-"  
  
"Stump, d'you have a card?" Patrick turned instantly, shoulders hunching at the officer that stood there before he realized who it was.

 

Pete. Oh god, Patrick had half a mind to just tell him everything.

But, that had gotten him nowhere before.

He couldn't rat Ryan out again, at least, not right now. For now, he needed to make sure his dad was safe. He had to warn him. He had to-

  
"Stump, do you have a card?" Pete repeated, a little more slowly this time.

  
"A card…?"

  
"You need a card to make a call. You put your name on the list-" He gestured at a clipboard hanging from the wall by the door, "-and management gives you two calls per week."

 

"How long does that take?" Patrick tried desperately. An hour? Two hours? That would be okay, his dad would still be okay in-

 

"A day."

 

Well, they'd be organizing the funeral at that point.

  
Patrick shook his head slowly, "I need it now- it's an emergency."  
  
"Rules are rules." Pete shrugged lightly, "I'm sorry."  
Patrick was getting real fucking tired of rules, but he bit his tongue and nodded jerkily, before leaving the call room and stalking away.

  
There was only one other person that could get him a phone.

 

 

 

 

 

"Frank!"

The man didn't even look back at him, but Patrick was too frantic to notice. Or care.

  
"I need a favour. You can get things, right? Could you get me a phone? Please?"  
  
"Sure." Frank chuckled, "Don't expect an iPhone or something, though."

Patrick shook his head so hard his vision blurred, "It's fine, it's fine-"

 

"Those things are pretty expensive, y'know."

 

"I have money." Patrick blurted out, hands digging into his pockets and fishing out the bundle his dad had slipped him. "How much? Frank- How much?" He pleaded, barely noting how Frank had frozen for a moment.

  
Frank cleared his throat, eyes glued to the money in Patrick's hand. "400 dollars- and 10 extra. For credit."  
  
Patrick's mind raced as he counted, hands shaking and fingers trembling as he separated the notes. He pressed the money to Frank quickly, every inch of him trembling with anticipation and relief all at once. It was going to be okay. He was going to call his dad, he was going to warn him- it was going to be okay.

 

"Thanks." The man took the money, and calmly stuffed it into his pocket with one swift, practised move. "D'you want anything else?"

Patrick was quick to shake his head, he just needed the goddamn phone. "No."   
Frank hummed and climbed up into his bunk, pulling a book from the shelf beside him and opening it, beginning to reading and starting to completely ignore the frantic Patrick.

 

Uh.

 

Patrick had been hoping for a little urgency here.

 

Clearing his throat, Patrick brought Frank's attention back to himself. This was _urgent_ , the sooner Frank could get him that phone, the better. "So, when will I get it?"

Frank chuckled. He looked up from the pages, brown eyes peeking over the edge. He wrinkled his nose at Patrick. "When you pay me the other 2,600 dollars you owe me."

 

All the air in Patrick's lungs disappeared for a moment, and he gasped like a newborn before Frank explained himself a little more with a smile. "You lost my drugs. You need to repay me."

 

Patrick froze again. Was Frank serious? He'd just shelled out most- pretty much _all_ of his money for nothing?

His eyes flickered down to Frank's pocket before they moved back up to his face.

 

Fuck. Well, he couldn't do anything about that, but he needed a phone and he needed one now.

 

With a steady exhale and the dirtiest, pissed off look he could give Frank without getting punched, Patrick turned on his heel and paced out of the cell.

He'd go back to the phones. He'd pay someone for their spot, or something- it didn't matter, he needed to call his dad more than he needed the money in his pocket. It was worth it.

 

When he reached the phone room, he paused, willing himself to stay calm.

He moved over to the closest phone and stood beside a prisoner, who was struggling to press his card into the phone's slot.

 

"I need to make a call. It's urgent." Patrick raised his chin, keeping his brow knitted at the man.

"Urgent?" The prisoner scoffed, dropping his hand from the phone with a scowl. "How urgent is it-"  
  
"Fuck, how much do you want?" Cursing under his breath, Patrick was already reaching back into his pocket. "20 dollars, 30-"

  
"100 and I'll give you two call cards." The inmate said quickly, eyes wide and gleaming at the sight of the green wrinkled dollars.

  
Waving goodbye to the last of his money, Patrick tried not to frown as he counted out and handed over the notes. The man was shoving them in his own pocket soon after, as well as pushing both cards into Patrick's hand, before moving away with a mutter of: "Good luck."

 

Both call cards in hand, Patrick surged up to the phone. He pressed one of the cards into the slot, eyes locking on the keypad as he typed in the numbers.

"C'mon, c'mon…" He pleaded into the ringing tone, fingers gripping the phone and knuckles going white as he paced around as far as the cord would let him.

The ringing stopped, and Patrick stopped with it. He braced himself, ready to hear his dad's voice and already practising what he'd say to the man in his head but-

 

The call ended abruptly, the ringing falling into silence with three angry beeps that told him his dad had ignored the call.

  
"God fucking damn it-" Patrick growled, pulling out the used card and pressing the fresh one in instead before dialling the number again. The one fucking time he needed his dad to answer the call.

 

He pressed the phone back to his ear, holding it between his shoulder and head as he bit the nails on his free hand.

 

It rang for what felt like forever, the sound was droning into his head like a drill.

"Please, please, just pick up, pick up-" He muttered the chant as he paced, eyes squeezed closed and temples pounding with his heart beat, when the call dropped into silence again.

 

He exhaled as he pulled the phone down from his ear, staring ahead as a flurry hit him.

 

His dad had ignored the call again, but he needed to warn him about Ryan…But, to warn him, he needed to call him, but all his call cards were used up- he couldn't fucking buy anymore, because Frank had conned him out of all his _money_ -

 

"Are you done?"

 

Patrick jumped, turning to find another inmate waiting for the phone behind him, arms crossed and brow raised.

With a reluctant nod, Patrick handed him the phone, slumping away bonelessly as the reality of things set in. His mom and dad were in danger, all because of him. And now, he couldn't even warn them. He'd played his cards so stupidly that he'd lost any chance of calling them.

 

Coming to the stairs that led up to the cells, he stopped.

  
Fuck, he couldn't just sit by and wait for the news that his parents had been murdered, he had to do something.

He glanced over his shoulder, eyes raking over the cells, the inmates and the guards.

  
There had to be another way. Prisoners were smarter than they were given credit for, and being stripped of their freedom was enough to make them improvise when they needed something.

 

He wasn't about to get involved with more Frank-types, so there was one thing for it. He'd have to go to the source, and steal a phone himself…Although, that might be easier said than done.

 

Leaning on the stair banister and doing his best not to look completely suspicious, Patrick glanced around the entire room, scanning over each officer he saw.

 

They were the only ones who would have phones, but getting close enough to one to get into their pockets was going to be hard- especially on such short notice.

Every guard he laid eyes on looked meaner than the last, and there was no way he was going to sneak a phone out of their pockets.

 

Patrick's shoulders fell, along with his brow.

No, if he wanted to get close enough to a guard to steal from them, he'd need a distraction or some trust.

 

A distraction would be tricky to pull off- not many people would be willing to help him, and those who would didn't deserve to get beaten up like Joe was.

 

So that left trust.

 

He'd only spoken to three officers for more than a few seconds. There was the Chief Jailer, there was that kid that helped him out of the crate, and there was Pete.

 

Patrick bit the inside of his cheek, pushing off the banister and glancing around for the man.

 

Pete was his only option. He was the only one Patrick could get close enough too.

 

Getting caught _would_ also mean a prolonged stay in solitary- and he was not going to break his other wrist just to get out again.

And of course, stealing from Pete was kind of a dick move; He'd be sort of…'betraying' one of the only people who had helped him thus far, but-

  
He sighed deeply.

This was more important than how much the officer might or might not trust him. He needed to warn his parents, this was his fault and he needed to fix it.

 

Patrick narrowed his eyes, and paced out of the cell block, making a beeline for the phone room, the last place he'd seen him, first.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pete hadn't been in the phone room. He hadn't been in the canteen. He hadn't been at the church either. He hadn't been in the halls, in the cell blocks, or in the library.

Patrick had started thinking Pete might've gone home today, but he'd just left the sick bay and he'd been a moment away from sprinting to the courtyard when-

 

"No running."

 

The voice was tired, annoyed and familiar. Patrick froze when he heard it, and he was still stiff when he turned to see Pete standing there, looking all disapproving and exhausted.

 

Patrick's Adam's apple bobbed, eyes flicking down to Pete's pockets. He needed to get into them, but he also needed to distract him.

Mind racing along with his pulse, Patrick walked towards Pete. Improvising had never been his strong suit, but there was only one viable plan he could think of right now.

 

The officer's brow furrowed and confusion covered his features, but before he could say anything, Patrick threw his arms around his neck and buried his face in shoulder.

 

The startled noise Pete made shook his whole body, and Patrick felt him stiffen and tense up.

He half expected Pete to shove him off and yell him a warning, but instead, he felt hands gingerly patting his back and he heard a timid voice in his ear. "Uh- Patrick, are you okay?"

 

Patrick said nothing, he only burrowed his face in Pete's warm shoulder further and made a pitiful noise, all while his injured hand dropped to Pete's pocket.

 

"Hey, look- you can, talk to me if you need to, or if something's wrong, or…" Pete sighed and Patrick could practically imagine the sympathetic look on his face.

 

It made a maelstrom of guilt swell in his stomach, but he ignored it and ducked his hand into Pete's pocket carefully.

 

He didn't even consider telling Pete about his situation. Telling Pete about his situation had gotten him into _this_ one; Patrick might've been a slow learner when it came to this kind of thing, but he always learned. Eventually.

 

"I'm really sorry." He wasn't sure if he was apologizing for real or not.

Pete scoffed softly, "Patrick, you don't have to say sorry-"

 

Suddenly, Pete stopped and Patrick sniffed. His hand was frozen stiff in Pete's pocket while his fingers stretched out, searching for the cold plastic and glass of a phone.

 

Pete sounded nervous when he spoke again, "Are you sure you don't want to tell me something? I-"  
  
There it was.

Patrick's eyes widened, and his fingers curled around Pete's mobile.

 

"-you know Reynolds does therapy, I mean-"

 

Patrick sprang back, hiding the phone behind his back and making sure Pete kept his eyes trained upwards. "Y-Yeah, I know. I'm gonna go sign up, actually." Patrick kept his voice high and as innocent as he could make it.

He hoped Pete could ignore the inmate uniform for a minute and not even notice his pocket felt lighter.

 

"I just…needed a hug." Patrick shrugged weakly, fingers ghostly white as they clamped around the phone like a vice.  
"Uh…Yeah." Pete said slowly, eyes blinking oddly as he looked to be a little dazed. He nodded again, "Yeah, no- I- That's fine. I- I'll-"

 

Patrick cut through Pete's stutters like a knife through butter. "I have to go sign up to-"

"Oh yeah-" Pete nodded quickly, clearing his throat and chewing on his lip. "Yeah- uh- Bye, then."

 

Patrick smiled and moved to turn away while he pushed the phone into his own pocket. He ignored the pit of guilt eating its way through him. "Bye."

And with that, he paced away, walking as quickly as he could without looking suspicious.

 

He had a phone, now he needed to get as far away from prison guards as possible. He needed to call his dad, he just hoped it wasn't too late.

 

Patrick got back to the cell block, looking around wildly for anywhere to hide.

 

He couldn't go back in the ball crate, he couldn't hide in his cell, he couldn't hide in the common areas either.

The sick bay was out too; Too many nurses- and worst of all, Reynolds would be crawling around somewhere, and he really wanted to stay away from that doctor now.

 

The only place left were the bathrooms, but they were always full of inmates. That being said, it was the only place officers weren't watching- there weren't many cameras, either.

He sighed, half glaring at one of the navy-clad officers standing in the corner as he started towards the bathrooms.

 

The second Patrick walked into the toilets, he locked eyes on an empty stall and moved towards it.

He locked himself behind the door, tugged on it twice to make sure it wouldn't give, and leaned on the wall. He fished Pete's phone out of his pocket, thanked god there was no password, and dialed his dad's number. He was just praying it wasn't too late.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Elisa Yao.

 

A name.

 

That was all he'd had to find her- not counting the sparse descriptions Patrick had given them when he'd been babbling about how much he loved her. Before he'd been _imprisoned_ , anyway.  


Despite everything, David had managed to find her. He'd also managed to lie about working for a well connected company, and he'd also managed to get a meeting with the new, rebuilt company his son had been sacrificed for. He'd made sure to ask for Elisa Yao by name. He hadn't told her about the gun in his jacket.

 

And, as far as he could see, everything Patrick had said about her was true so far. She was polite, educated, sweet. It was hard to imagine she'd willingly framed his son for so many crimes.

  
So it all stared with a casual meeting at a coffee shop. They were there to talk about business, but nothing was set in stone of course.

David had spent the night before reading up on whatever he could to sound remotely like he knew what he was talking about while he won Elisa around.

 

He just needed to make her feel comfortable, and she'd start speaking about her home life soon enough. And that was the only way he'd know if Patrick was innocent or not, she was the key and answer all at once.

 

When there was a break in the conversation, David decided that she needed a push in the right direction.

He took a sip from his coffee, quickly putting it down and smiling at the young woman opposite him amicably. "I see you're expecting." David nodded down at the slight swell on Elisa's otherwise flat stomach.

 

That might be his grandchild. He'd find out soon enough.

 

She huffed and smiled broadly, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Being a parent, it's-" The woman exhaled deeply, "Daunting."

 

Instead of the good natured chuckle she'd no doubt expected, David only stared at her for a moment.

"I'm a parent too." He raised his chin, the image of his youngest son behind bars the only thing in his head. "And I'd like to ask you a question-"

 

His phone rang. Blaring from inside his pocket like it had two times before now.

He couldn't hold back a sigh as he reached into his jacket, tugging it out and squinting at the screen. This goddamn thing had been interrupting his mission far too often.

  
"Go ahead, it's fine." Elisa beamed sweetly.

David gave her a small, rather tight smile back and finally picked up the phone that had been screaming non-stop in the past few minutes.

 

"Hello?" He tried not to sound too irritated, but he barely finished asking who was speaking before their voice blasted his ear.

 

"Dad- Dad, it's me. You're in danger, you're- you have to listen to me-"

 

Patrick.

 

Patrick, sounding desperate and frantic and terrified in a way he'd hardly ever heard his son sound before. Every one of his words was punctuated with a sob or a gasp or a curse word, and instantly, David knew it was important.

 

He looked up at Elisa, "I'll be right back-" He stood up, spine straight and rigid. "Family emergency." The woman nodded and assured him with another polite word, and soon, David had pushed through the coffee shop doors and had put all his energy back on listening to his son.

  
Pressing the phone close and keeping his voice low, David focused on nothing but his son's words. "Patrick, what's wrong?"

 

"They know where you live- he knows where you live, dad-" Patrick would've been incoherent to anyone else, but he'd always understand his son somehow; He'd even understood his nonsensical babbling when he was a two year old.

 

"Calm down and speak slowly." David said, making sure his words were firm as they could be without sending Patrick into another terrified frenzy.

  
There were a few labored sighs, before Patrick exhaled lowly and spoke again, voice thick with terror but words clearer.

 

"A murderer is after you. He knows where you and mom live, oh god-" There was a shaky sigh. "Oh god, I screwed up. Dad-"

 

Patrick gave a violent sob, every ounce of clarity he had slowly fading the more he spoke. "You told me to make a decision and I did and I screwed it up. You're in danger, it's all my fault- Dad, please!"

 

"Listen to me, Patrick." David said sternly, "I'm not in danger."

His son cried out on the other end of the phone, "Yes, you are, dad! You are-"

 

David turned where he stood, squinting at the coffee shop window and making sure Elisa was still sat at the table.

She was still there, typing away on her own phone.

 

He kept her eyes on her when he spoke to Patrick again. "Patrick, I want you to do something for me right now." David raised his chin. "I want you to call Elisa."  
There was a pause, a stutter, and finally a question. "Elisa? What- Why-"

 

"Call her. Now."

 

With that, David ended the call and shoved his phone back into his pocket, still staring at Elisa beyond the glass. He exhaled softly to himself and moved back towards the door.

 

He'd know if his son was innocent soon enough. And she'd tell him.

 

 

 

 

 

Patrick paced around in the stall, one shaky hand over his mouth to stop himself crying and the other holding Pete's mobile.

 

Call Elisa. He had to call Elisa.

 

The mere thought of hearing her voice again was enough to almost send him into cardiac arrest.

 

He still remembered how she looked at him when they took him away in handcuffs. She didn't smile, but she didn't frown either. It had just been…blank.

 

Patrick sighed shakily and leant on the wall, sliding down it until he was sat on the linoleum floor.

He stared down at the screen, and doing his best to fight down the fear in his chest, he typed in her phone number. He hated that he still remembered it, but at least it had come in handy.

 

 

 

 

 

"Hi- I'm really sorry about that." David smiled politely, sitting opposite Elisa again.

Elisa smiled back kindly and shook her head, her free strands of curly hair bobbing as she did so.

 

David hadn't even begun to make small talk before _her_ phone began to ring.

  
His eyes closed for a moment. He knew how hard that must've been for Patrick, but his son had always been stronger than he'd thought. Than everyone had thought.

He looked back up at Elisa, polite smile still on his face as he nodded towards the phone. "Go ahead."

  
Gratefully, Elisa flashed a grin, picked up the call and pressed the phone to her ear. She stood up, speaking politely as she moved away towards the doors. "Hello?"

 

 

"Elisa."

 

 

She didn't say anything.

 

"It's Patrick. Please don't hang up. I just want a second." Patrick hadn't expected his pleading to work, but it had. She didn't hang up, she just listened in silence.  


He wondered what her face looked like right now.

Was it blank in terror? Was it scrunched up in guilt? Was it curled in disgust? Half of him wanted to know, wanted to see every crinkle and every twitch, but the other never wanted to see her again.

 

"I just want to know one thing." Patrick sniffed, he couldn't help the miserable flash of a smile on his face. It would've been funny, if it hadn't been so tragic. "I just want to know what happened."

 

She still wasn't speaking. She still wasn't answering his questions, so Patrick tried pleading again, it was all he could do.

 

"I'm going to be in here for _seven_ years, Elisa." The 'seven' particularly felt like a knife in his chest. That was nearly ten years. He'd miss so much, he'd forget so much- he'd change. For the worse, probably.

Elisa still didn't speak, so Patrick buried his face in his free hand and tried again, the lump in his throat barely letting his words through.

 

"I want to know if you ever actually loved me."

 

She still didn't speak.

 

"Or, if it was all just part of your plan." Patrick sniffed, shaking his head even though she couldn't see it. "I don't care anymore. I really don't- I just need the truth."

  
He'd expected more silence, he'd even expected her to just hang up, but instead, her voice rang out and Patrick felt his stomach do a backflip.

 

"I'm so sorry."

 

Elisa exhaled on the other end of the phone, "I wanted to run away with you, but-"

Patrick's eyes dropped closed. All he could see was that _blankness_ that had been in her eyes. All he could hear was a second rate excuse for locking him behind bars like an animal.

 

"Everything was crumbling to pieces, Patrick. I-" She stuttered for a moment. "My family, the company…I had to choose."

Her family? That was unlikely. She meant the company, she'd always meant the company. Money had beaten him by a long shot, apparently. He couldn't say he was surprised; He wasn't exactly a prize.

Patrick let out a miserable laugh, and he felt his eyes sting with tears when Elisa spoke again.

 

"I just hope you can forgive me, one day."

 

 

 

 

 

David pressed the muzzle of his gun into Elisa's side, keeping it hidden under his jacket as he stood close and beside her.

 

"My son might forgive you. But I won't."

 

She looked frozen, just like a deer in the headlights. He held out a hand for her phone, and she gave it over, jaw hanging open and eyes wide as saucers.

Pressing the phone to his ear, David made sure to dig the gun into her side and to hold her close with his other hand.

 

"Everything's fine, son. I love you."

 

" _Dad_?"

 

David hung up and handed the phone back to her. He shepherded her along the sidewalk, no longer bothering with smiles or shallow business-talk. "Don't even think about running. I'm faster than you."

She was trembling like a leaf and stuttering, but David didn't care; She'd condemned his youngest son to nearly a decade in jail, she deserved worse than being threatened for a small while.

 

"You'll take one million from the money you stole." Stressing the ' _you_ ', David scowled at her as they walked. Her eyes scrunched closed and she looked physically pained, but David just kept speaking, making sure she understood the gravity of her situation. "And in 12 hours, I'll come pick it up from your house."  
  
She looked at him in a panic, mouth hanging open and tongue struggling to get past a stutter. David spoke before she even had a chance to, confirming her worst nightmare. "Oh yes, I know where you live." He confirmed factually, along with a quick nod.

 

"Things will start going back to normal." He dug his gun into her side even further, half hoping the muzzle would leave a mark to remind her just how serious he was.

 

"First of all, my son will be back home where he belongs. What do you think?" He growled the question at her, but she only trembled in silence and walked alongside him obediently.

 

"I have a family, Elisa." David muttered, looking away from her again. They were far enough away from the coffee shop, and he was pretty sure she already understood that not doing as he'd said would have consequences.

 

He withdrew his gun from her side and stuffed it back into his jacket gracefully. "I'll do anything to protect my family." His eyes scanned her over, lingering on her belly for a moment. The thought of a grandchild flooded his mind again. "Maybe you'll understand that one day."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Ryan?"

  
Brendon's voice came through the phone and Ryan's head jerked up like a dog's to a dog whistle. He pressed the phone further against his ear with a gulp. He'd been on edge all day, worrying and waiting for news from his husband.

Then again, he knew Brendon like the back of his hand; The man never failed him.

 

"Yes? Is it done?" He chewed on the inside of his bloody cheek, impassive at the taste of iron that flooded his tongue again.  
There was an exhale on the other end of the phone. "Yeah, it's all done."

 

A wave of relief washed over Ryan, and a slow smile spread over his lips. "Thank you."  
Brendon clicked his tongue on the other end of the phone, "Anything for you, _babe_." Ryan rolled his eyes, hoping Brendon could at least feel it.

They ended the call with brief ' _I love you's_ ' and soon enough, Ryan was stuffing his phone back into its hiding place in a chair leg.

  
He looked over at Mikey, mirroring him from the other top bunk in the cell.

Mikey raised his brow in a silent question, and Ryan only smiled. "Now there's only one left to deal with."

 

 

 


	4. Coral Snake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge ty to Spooky121 for beta reading this, it's really appreciated !!

"Four, one."

 

Patrick crooked his neck and tried to catch a glimpse of the visitor's room through the frosted window.

He'd been desperate to see his dad since yesterday, and thankfully, he'd agreed to come visit as soon as possible; Patrick needed to tell him about everything, he needed to convince him about what was going on. He just hoped and prayed the man would believe him.

 

"Go ahead."

 

Patrick glanced back at the officer behind him and nodded jerkily.

He dove through the door and into the mostly empty visitor's room without hesitation, eyes locking onto his dad in seconds.

 

The man stood up, a visitor's card pinned to his lapel and one hand braced on a table.

 

The second the door behind him closed, Patrick walked towards his dad, who wasted no time in engulfing him in a tight hug.

Patrick sighed, dropping his face into his dad's shoulder and pretending they was anywhere else but here.

He really didn't think he'd miss his parents this much; It made him feel like a pathetic kid, but fuck, he couldn't help it.

He felt his dad's hand on the back of his head when a voice made them jump and break away from each other.

 

"Three seconds."

 

A guard had surged up beside them, eyes impassive and voice booming. The look his dad gave the man was pure irritation, but he obliged anyway.

 

"Dad." Patrick nodded in acknowledgement as they sat down.

"How's your hand, son?" Wasting no time, his dad nodded towards the tightly wound bandage around his son's hand and wrist.

Patrick shrugged and nodded all at once, "It's a lot better, but-" Sliding his hands across the metal table, Patrick leant forwards. "Is everyone okay? Mom? Megan- Kevin?" His dad smiled softly and spoke even more softly still. "Everyone's fine, Patrick."

 

Patrick couldn't help the long breath he gave as his arms dropped to his sides bonelessly. "I've been so worried a-about you, and mom, and-"

He clenched his eyes shut for a moment, before looking back up at his dad with all the conviction he could muster. "I think you should go to the police."

 

His dad tutted sharply. "What would we say, Patrick? That we're being threatened from inside a prison?"

 

Patrick sighed and dropped his head into his healthy hand, knitting his brow at the table top. It was frustrating- incredibly so, and now that things were getting worse and worse with each passing day-

 

"Listen, you focus on surviving in here."

Patrick's head jerked up just in time to catch his dad's mouth quirking upwards, his eyes filled with that responsible, trust-worthiness that had always calmed him down. "Leave the outside to me."

 

Patrick inhaled sharply and a feeling of dread settled into him.

 

No, he couldn't just 'leave the outside' to him; He trusted his dad, but things were getting serious. He couldn't bear the thought of something happening to them because of him.

 

He straightened up and leant forwards again, keeping his voice low and as level as he could despite the fear that had left his hands trembling since yesterday. He had to make him understand. He had to.

 

"Dad, they killed a member of staff."

 

But, to his shock, his dad only nodded deeply. "I know."

Patrick slumped back in his chair, hands still loose and splayed on the metal table. He stared at his dad, brow furrowed deeply.

 

He knew. How did he know?

 

Had someone told him- No, maybe it had been in the news. But, it was a little too soon for that-

Patrick's eyes flicked downwards, mind racing and spinning all at once.

 

…What else did he know?

 

Slowly- and cautiously, Patrick looked back up at his dad. "What were you doing with Elisa yesterday?"

There was silence for a moment, and the man opposite only blinked before huffing bemusedly and quietly. "Figuring out if you were lying to me."

 

He raised his eyes to his son's and stared at him hard and firmly. "And now I know you weren't."

 

Patrick felt his heart flutter and a weight dropped from his shoulders. His dad believed him, fuck- someone believed him. Before he could even try a pitiful 'thank you', his dad's face dropped.

 

"I tried to get the money."

Patrick squinted upwards, he could almost swear his dad looked ashamed with himself.

"For your bail." The man exhaled quickly, teeth obviously gritting as he spoke. Patrick's brow knitted tightly; He tried to imagine what had gone wrong, but, he couldn't put the pieces together. "And?"

 

His dad exhaled and averted his eyes. Everything about him had started screaming tired and irritated and holding back all at once. "I asked her for a million- from the money she stole."

Patrick nodded twice quickly, wordlessly urging his dad to hurry up, the feeling of panic clawing up his chest.

 

"I gave her a few hours, went to her house…" His dad's jaw clenched, his eyes glazed over as he glared at the table. "But she wasn't there."

 

" _ What _ ?"

Gone? She was gone?

Patrick found it hard to believe she would just up and leave like that- it seemed so unlike her. She'd done all this to keep her lifestyle, it seemed too…odd to just forget it all.

 

"Everything was…a mess." His dad shook his head, eyes narrowing. "Like she'd left in a hurry."

He jerkily raised his head, the look in his eyes clearing into sympathy as soon as he laid eyes on his son.

 

"She's gone."

 

Gone. She was gone.

She was gone with millions of dollars. Millions of dollars that could've meant his freedom.

It felt like a punch in the gut, it felt like the bile in his throat. Patrick felt sick.

Why did she hate him so much? What had he even done to deserve this-

 

"There was something else, Patrick."

 

Patrick looked up, only to see his dad's quickly paling face.

 

"She's pregnant."

 

Those three words shook Patrick to his core.

He froze, blood running cold in every vein and artery. His skin prickled, the hair on the back of his neck stood on end, and he was speechless. Completely and utterly speechless.

It took three minutes of slumped silence until the words made sense to him. And even then, all he could do was repeat one of them bonelessly.

 

"Pregnant."

 

Patrick paused, dry mouth parted and watching his dad as his dad watched him. His dad looked curious now, eyes slightly narrowed in that shrewd way they always took when he was examining something.

 

Was he…implying what he thought he was?

 

He leant forwards slowly, chair creaking under him as he did so. "Is it mine?" The words tasted like rat poison.

His dad only shrugged weakly, a soft, sorry smile weaving onto his face. "I don't know."

 

Patrick blinked, shoulders dropping again as he slumped back.

He half-heartedly tried to count the months, trying to guess whether it was even possible for it to be his, trying to imagine what she'd look like, but his brain couldn't take the strain.

His head swam, and all he could do was shake it to clear the mist.

 

Fuck it. Fuck it. He needed to get out of here. He could worry about the possibility of a baby later.

He exhaled sharply, heavy head raising so quickly he felt his neck ache.

 

"There might be another way."

 

The older man's brow furrowed, a look of obvious confusion crossing him. "To…?"

 

"To get out of here." He parroted back, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

His dad raised an eyebrow again, but Patrick shook his head before he'd even opened his mouth to speak.

 

"But it's illegal. So if you're gonna take the moral high ground, or lecture me or something- forget it."

 

There was a still moment of silence. Neither moved, neither spoke, and they only stared at each other.

Then, slowly, his father leant backwards in his chair, shrewd eyes surveying his son for a moment. Patrick stayed impassive and quiet, and finally, his dad nodded his head once.

 

"Tell me."

 

Patrick always thought he knew his dad inside and out.

A former superintendent, a patron saint of upholding the law, someone who only walked the straight and narrow path at all times. A goody-two-shoes, basically.

 

But, the more they saw each other, the more they spoke, the more fucked up this whole situation became- every time, Patrick realized that his dad wasn't inherently good like Jesus or whatever; He was just…a person. Who seemed to be willing to do a lot to get his son out of prison.

 

"On my first night here, a guy was murdered." Patrick made the strenuous effort to lean forwards, all despite how heavy and stiff his limbs felt.

"He'd stolen nine million dollars, and he hid them somewhere." Glancing over his shoulder for any guards that might've wondered too close, Patrick exhaled softly and dropped his voice into a whisper. "And I think there's a clue."

 

"A clue?" His dad repeated softly, eyes clouding over in thought as the old detective in him woke up.

Patrick shrugged, suddenly sounding less sure and hating himself for it. "Well, I think it's a clue, anyway." He shuffled forwards, ankles hooking around the legs of his chair as he dragged it forwards. "It's a SIM card."

 

"What was the guy's name?" His dad whispered and squinted, but his eyes were full of interest- not suspicion or doubtfulness, for once.

Patrick looked over his shoulders again, satisfied when he saw the guards were far away at the end of the room. "Gerard Way."

 

He leant forwards again, imploring his dad with nothing but wide eyes. "Dad, I know where the SIM card is."

His dad exhaled and lowered his head, one hand firmly gripping Patrick's wrist. "Can you get it without being seen?"

"Yes." A slow smile spread across Patrick's face, all as a warm feeling of pride spread through his chest. Finally, something he  _ could _ do. Something he could actually help with.

 

His dad's face didn't change however, and all he did was scan the room again. "Does anyone else know about it?"

 

Patrick only shook his head.

 

His father stared at him for a second, words hitching. "I-If you think you're being followed, or if you're in danger- forget it, okay?" His eyes softened, his voice almost made it seem like he was pleading. "You need to be careful, son."

 

Patrick could only smile again and hope it didn't look weak. "I will be."

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


"Here." Josh said quietly, handing over the white mug that had belonged to Ray.

Pete exhaled softly; the picture of Ray drinking out of it on early morning shifts, looking disheveled and tired from sleepless nights, burst across his mind. He felt guilty.

 

Clearing his throat and shaking his head, Pete took the mug and wasted no time in stuffing it into the cardboard box that held all of the man's belongings.

 

Swiftly and in silence, Inspector Dupre- who had insisted on taking Ray's case, took the box. He offered Pete a hand and a tight, sad smile. "I'm really sorry."

Pete bonelessly shook the inspector's hand, not quite being able to say anything back. But, then again, he hadn't been talking much since he'd gotten the news.

 

Everything passed by in a blur, and before he knew it, the inspector had disappeared through the door, leaving with every trace of Ray there was in this prison. And Pete felt guilty.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The greenhouse was small, more than a little decrepit, and sat at the edge of the prison.

Patrick barely glanced around at the plastic walls as he strode inside, his quick footsteps thudding on concrete in succession.

He almost ran up to his planter- marked by the name and number tag sticking out of it, hands curling around the wooden edge as he squinted down at the loose soil. It had to be in here, nobody would've moved it, right?

 

Grimacing as the soil stained his bandage, he dug his hands into the box and began rooting around. He couldn't help feel bad about the tiny green shoots he pushed aside, all while his fingers splayed out in search of the plastic.

Plastic, blue plastic. He could picture it in his head so clearly- God, if only he'd know he could've taken it earlier, but-

 

He couldn't find it.

 

His pulse was hammering in his fingertips. He couldn't find it.

He searched the edges, the center, the very bottom of the planter, all as a sinking feeling took hold of his stomach- but nothing came up.

 

No plastic, no bag…no SIM card.

 

With gritted teeth and panic in his chest, Patrick pulled his hands out of the planter and scrubbed the soil from them as best he could.

Where the fuck could it be? He couldn't remember if anyone had seen it, he'd been so sure that-

 

"We're closing."

 

Patrick's head jerked up and he turned, eyes wide and blood freezing as he laid eyes on Pete.

 

The officer stood at the entrance to the greenhouse: Arms crossed, quiet and expecting an answer.

 

Patrick swallowed thickly, and did his best not to picture the mobile phone from the day before. It was still haunting him, its weight in his pocket was burning, but he couldn't very well give it back. Especially not now.

 

Clearing his throat quietly, Pete took a step forwards. "Is everything okay?"

"Uhh…" Patrick looked around quickly, thinking of an excuse, any excuse- when both of their gazes landed on the wrecked planter.

 

"S-Someone messed up my plants." Hiding his hands, Patrick tried the flimsy excuse, hoping he sounded more convincing than he felt.

Pete nodded slowly, and moved over to the planter.

 

Soil was everywhere; Over the sides, on the floor, on  _ Patrick _ \- and the tiny green leaves that had been growing before had been torn out root and stem.

 

"They…" Pete sighed exasperatedly, like he'd seen this a thousand times before, and one hand dragged over his face. "They like fucking with the newbies, I'm sorry-"

Patrick shrugged weakly, dropped his shoulders and ducked his head- doing his best to look sad, but he only heard Pete sigh again.

 

"Look, it's- it's closing time, you have to go to the canteen."

 

Patrick nodded wordlessly and made a move to hurry outside. He needed to find that goddamn SIM card, now, he just needed to narrow his list of suspects down.

Ryan? No, Ryan hardly left his cell, and besides, he didn't even know where the card was, right?

Maybe…Mikey? Or Frank? Or- Shit, he'd made way too many enemies in like,  _ a week _ , he needed to calm down-

 

"Hang on."

 

Patrick froze, all thoughts slicing in half as he turned slowly. Pete had figured it out, oh shit-

 

"Your face is, uh-" Pete nodded back towards the heaps of soil, and then towards Patrick.

 

With a blink, Patrick ran his hand over his jaw and pulled his hand back, only to see grains of dirt all over his fingers. He was about to sigh when Pete interjected again, handing a pack of tissues over.

 

"Here."

 

Patrick almost whined. The guilt was eating him alive at this point.

Honestly, if Pete had yelled at him and had thrown him in solitary, he would've felt much better about stealing his phone, but the guard just  _ insisted _ on being a decent human being.

 

"Thanks." Patrick smiled weakly and took the tissues, glancing up at Pete for a split second.

It was like looking directly into the sun, but instead of blinding him it just made him feel like a complete douchebag.

"No problem." He saw Pete shrug jerkily in the corner of his eye, and just as Patrick wiped the dirt from his face with one of the tissues, a voice rang out from behind them.

 

"Stump. To the Governor's office."

 

Patrick jumped and turned, only finding an officer he had never seen before.

For some reason, Patrick found himself glancing back at Pete, half in search of an explanation, and half in a cry for help. But, all Pete was doing was glaring at the other guard, brown eyes narrowed until his brow wrinkled.

 

"Come on."

 

The other officer spoke again, and so Patrick turned again- this time, following him outside quickly, while he shoved the packet of tissues into his pocket.

 

 

 

 

 

"I have some bad news." The Governor raised her chin, and Patrick felt a lump in his throat.

Bad news. That could mean anything, that could be  _ about _ anything.

 

"It's about Ryan Ross."

 

Shit.

 

Whatever it was actually about, his involvement meant it had just gotten a lot worse.

 

Patrick could hardly speak through the lump in his throat, but he didn't even have a chance to before the woman spoke again.

"He's in solitary." She said firmly and quickly, "I put him there to avoid any problems between you, after your testimony."

Patrick blinked oddly; That sounded like good news so far. He couldn't see what the problem was-

 

"But now I have to let him out."

 

Patrick fell back in his chair, shoulder blades crashing into the back of the wooden chair.

 

Fuck.

 

His eyes were wide as they stared forwards at the woman, and although her mouth was moving, all he could hear was his heartbeat pounding away in his ears.

 

He was screwed. He was actually screwed. Ryan had gone after chief Toro, and now he was gonna come after him-

 

"-has made a complaint with the prison authorities." Patrick's head jerked up as her voice reached his ears again.

The Governor's shoulders had tensed up, and her fingers had stiffened. She wasn't happy about this either, he supposed.

 

"He complained about wrongful solitary confinement-" She exhaled, shoulders dropping with her breath. "And, well, honestly, it  _ is _ an infringement."

Patrick blinked, half of the words going over his head. The woman seemed to notice, and finally, after a long sigh, put it in simpler terms for the inmate.

 

"We're releasing him in the morning."

 

"But…when he gets out, he's going to come after me." Patrick said breathlessly, eyes still wide and blinking unevenly.

"You'll be protected at all times. I'll have officer Walker watching you." The Governor chimed in quickly with a nod towards aforementioned guard standing by the door, but Patrick didn't feel any better about it.

Patrick said nothing and only slumped further back, but the Governor leant forwards. "Nothing will happen to you. I swear."

 

Patrick swallowed, eyes flitting downwards. It didn't sound too reassuring, honestly. Fuck, how was he supposed to stay alive with Ryan and his cronies in every corner? He was going to end up like Gerard at this rate-

 

She sighed harshly, "You may be under pressure, but you have to be strong, Patrick. Your testimony is vital if we're going to launch a murder investigation against Ryan."

 

Oh, great. He had to risk himself for the investigation. Well, that was just fantastic-

 

The phone in his pocket started buzzing.

 

Patrick felt like he was going to throw up.

 

His hands rushed down to the phone, curling around it in a desperate attempt to block the speakers. He looked up again, blood chilling when he met the Governor's eyes, but-

 

"-and you'll be able to request a transfer. I'm sure they'll allow you to-"

 

Patrick's brow furrowed in confusion.

She hadn't heard it? She really hadn't heard the phone going wasp-nest ballistic in his pocket?

 

He exhaled and looked back down, narrowing his eyes at the outline of the mobile in his pocket. Well, on the bright side, at least Pete didn't have a loud and embarrassing ringtone. That would've been a lot worse.

Patrick's teeth clamped down on the inside of his cheek as he started running his fingers along the edges, trying to find any button that would get it to shut the hell up-

 

"You  _ are _ going through with this, aren't you?"

 

His head jerked up so quickly he could've sworn his neck had snapped.

He blinked for a moment, noting the Governor's wide pressing eyes. Oh yeah. She needed an answer.

Clearing his throat, Patrick nodded quickly, both hands still gripping the persistently-buzzing phone through his pocket. "Y-Yes, I'll testify against him. Uh-" He swallowed thickly, "Can I go now?"

  
  


The second he was out of the office, Patrick had made a beeline for the bathrooms- or, the only place he could hide for long enough to answer the string of calls that were assaulting his (Pete's) phone.

 

When he did finally slip through the bathroom doors, he made his way to the stalls as quickly as he could. But before he'd made much leeway, a voice called out to him.

 

"Are you okay, Patrick?"

 

Patrick turned on his heel, eyes wide and hands still stuffed into his pocket.

Joe was stood behind one of the benches, hair dripping wet, still patched up in bandages, and fingers closing the last button of his uniform.

 

"You look pale…?" Joe tried again, brow falling a little.

 

"Joe- J- Come here." Patrick hissed across the, thankfully mostly empty room, while one hand freed itself of the phone to pull open a stall door.

 

Joe stared at him for a moment with an amused look on his face, but Patrick quickly took matters into his own hands.

He pressed forwards and tangled a hand in the fabric Joe's uniform, before pulling him back into the stall.

 

"Whoa, whoa- what-"

 

"I need your help." Patrick pulled the buzzing phone out of his pocket and all Joe did was gasp.

 

He looked at the phone. Then at Patrick. Then at the phone again.

 

…And since he was struggling to put the pieces together, Patrick opted to help him out.

 

"I stole it from Pete yesterday." He explained to a still-extremely-confused Joe. "W-What do I do?" Patrick tried again, pushing the phone into Joe's hand.

That seemed to snap the man out of his trance, and soon enough, a mischievous smile that Patrick  _ really didn't like _ was spreading over the man's face.

 

Joe looked down at the screen- that was lit up with yet another new call from someone called 'Josh Dun', and, to Patrick's horror, he answered.

 

"Yes, hello?" Joe said politely, pressing the phone to his ear with a grin.

 

"JOE-" Instantly clapping a hand over his mouth, Patrick yelled the rest of his obscenities into his palm. He could only stare in wide-eyed horror as Joe calmly conversed with- Oh god, he could hear the voice on the other end. It was Pete. It was definitely Pete.

 

"Uh, hello? I'm the owner of this phone-"

 

"Oh yeah, I was expecting your call."

 

" _ Joe, what the fuck are you doing? _ " Patrick tried whispering, but Joe quickly motioned for him to keep quiet. Patrick glared. Patrick made a grab for the phone.

 

Joe stifled a laugh in his arm and pushed the smaller back with his elbow, still speaking into the phone ever-so-calmly. "Well, I found this phone on the bus yesterday, so I-"

 

" _ Joe _ ."

 

"Number 22?" Pete chirped up from the other end of the phone. God, if he only knew what was actually going on right now; Patrick was  _ such _ an asshole.

 

" _ JOE _ ."

 

"Yeah. Number 22." Joe grunted slightly as Patrick made another reach for the phone, but he easily pushed him away again.

 

"That's the one I catch for work." Pete sighed. Patrick could picture the way he dragged a hand over his face, the way he rubbed at the dark circles under his eyes with his fingers- It only made him sadder. It only made him wish he hadn't stole Pete's goddamn phone.

 

"I must've lost it-" Pete began to speak again, but before he could finish his sentence, Joe was stepping in yet again. "I could meet you tomorrow, to give it back."

 

Patrick made a sound like he was being brutally strangled. " _ You can't do that _ - _ I need it, Joe _ - _ No, you don't understand- _ "

 

Joe covered the speaker with his hand, just as Pete answered with a muffled ' _ Yeah, thanks _ '. He raised his brow at Patrick coolly and spoke simply. "Trust me."

 

Patrick narrowed his eyes, not keen on 'trusting him' at all. "Uh, are you planning on breaking out to give him his phone back, or…?"

His protest was quickly ignored though, and Joe was back to talking with Pete, paying no mind to Patrick- who was still glaring stubbornly. "Where should I meet you?"

 

"…The bus station, maybe? I mean-"

 

"That's fine- I'll leave it at lost property."

 

Once the pleasantries were over, Joe quickly ended the call and only chuckled when Patrick snatched the mobile back with a growl. "I hate you."

 

"I just bought you  _ at least _ another day." Joe said indignantly, but just as Patrick was about to snap at him again, he paused.

 

Now that he thought about it, this could give him some more time to sort stuff out. The calls from Pete would stop for a little while. And, who knows, maybe, eventually, Pete would get tired of waiting and he'd just go buy a new phone!

 

It was actually a pretty good plan now that he thought about it- or, it was the best plan he had right now.

Patrick glanced back up at Joe, who looked annoyingly smug. The shorter man furrowed his brow, "Thank you, but I still hate you."

"I'll take it." Joe nodded, a small smile on his face.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Finally curled up in his bunk, Patrick stared around the room blankly.

He sniffed at the cold air, and pulled his blankets up a little further until they reached his chin.

 

The plan was good. It was good. Kind of.

He was just gonna keep the phone and he was just gonna keep making excuses. Pete would just get a new phone, eventually; And he'd forget about this, hopefully.

 

…And he'd never find out it had been Patrick.

 

With a warm exhale, Patrick decided to make an effort to take his mind off Pete and the mobile. He felt bad enough already, he really didn't need to beat himself up for it anymore.

 

There wasn't much to do but wait for lights out, though.

Everyone was already locked away, the hordes of criminals were all in their cells, in their beds- all waiting for the rows of lights to go out, one by one.

So, out of boredom, Patrick found himself retreating back into his own head far too soon, but instead of Pete invading his thoughts, it was only blue plastic this time.

 

The SIM card was gone from his planter. The most likely scenario was that someone had seen him, and that same someone had taken it.

He had quite a few enemies so far…unfortunately. He'd have to go through each one, try and remember if they'd been there or not, and then go confront them.

 

That was going to take forever. And it was probably going end in quite a few injuries.

 

Patrick sighed. There had to be a quicker way.

 

The only way he could go back and see who'd taken it was by getting to a security camera, but, that was never going to happen unless…

Patrick glanced up at the bunks at the other side of the room.

 

With his blanket over his head to block out the light, Andy was already fast asleep. But Frank wasn't.

 

Patrick bit the inside of his ragged cheek as he watched the man, who was reading a book in complete silence.

He already owed him money. He owed him favours too. And, Frank hadn't been the friendliest to him recently, but…but if anyone knew how to get to security footage, it was him.

 

"Frank?" Patrick tried calling out to him in a whisper. Frank's only answer was a raised eyebrow.

 

Maybe this wasn't the best idea, but Patrick didn't have any other leads right now. And god, he needed to find that motherfucking SIM card. His dad was counting on him. This was his freedom they were talking about- and it all hinged on that piece of plastic.

 

"Someone stole something from me." He began slowly, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and sitting up straight to look at Frank in the eye. "Do you know how I could see the security footage?"

 

Frank flipped the page he'd finished reading. "What did they steal?"

 

Patrick gulped, and hoped that his lying had improved over the past few days. "A phone."

 

Frank didn't look up from his book. "Where was it?"

 

"In the greenhouse."

 

"Well." Finally dropping his book, Frank leant up on one arm and looked down at Patrick from his bunk. "You'll have to fuck a warden."

 

Patrick almost rolled his eyes. Fucking asshole- why did he even try?

 

"But like, more than once." Frank chuckled, "'Cause, if you want to see  _ hours _ of footage, you have to be really good."

 

Patrick glared, despite his better judgement, but the other man just shrugged once again. "And I mean really good. Like,  _ no-gag-reflex _ good."

 

Patrick finally let himself roll his eyes, and he scoffed violently. "Alright alright- I'll use a payphone, god-"

With a shake of his head, he moved to lie back down when Frank climbed out of his bunk and made his way towards Patrick, speaking slowly as he took calculated steps.

 

"So, let me get this straight." Frank tilted his head to the side, all amusement dropping from his face like an avalanche. "You bought a  _ phone _ , instead of paying me back?"

 

Patrick paused. Shit, maybe he should've kept quiet.

He looked up at Frank and tried to hold his nerve, wondering if he should even try and convince him that he'd stolen the phone, not bought it.

But, as Frank approached, Patrick decided against it. He looked angry. Like,  _ seriously _ angry.

 

"I gave you time to pay me back, y'know." Frank squinted, coming to a stop beside Patrick's bunk. "I thought we were friends- and instead, you lied to me, and you bought a phone from someone else."

Patrick wasn't about to answer him- every time he spoke to Frank, he just seemed to fuck things up even more.

So, Patrick opted to stay completely silent until Frank got bored of trying (and succeeding) to intimidate him.

 

It took a little while before the other man finally scoffed, but instead of retreating to his bunk, Frank leant down to look Patrick in the eye. He spoke slowly, and carefully, like he was taking time with every syllable to make sure it stuck with Patrick. "You have 24 hours. Or you're gonna be in deep shit."

 

And with that, Frank moved away. Patrick didn't look up as he listened to the soft padding footsteps walking to the other side of the room, he didn't look up when a guard finally announced lights out, and he didn't look up when all the lights began going out row by row.

 

Instead, Patrick lay down, turned onto his side, and did his best to stay awake. He didn't feel safe, for once. And all night, Patrick swore could feel eyes burning into his back.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"You're still in here?"

 

David glanced over his shoulder as he was shaken out of his thoughts by the voice.

Patricia, his wife, stood at the wooden door of the unfinished summerhouse, nose wrinkling as the smell of wood polish hit her.

 

"What's wrong, David?" She tried again, slowly growing worried by his silence.

David shook his head and looked away from her, slumping back in his chair. "Nothing's wrong."

 

"Is your blood pressure alright?" Patricia stepped forwards, making her way across the maze of wooden planks and paint cans that littered the floor. "We could go to the hospital-"

 

"We're not going anywhere." David cut in, ending that train of thought as swiftly as possible.

He was fine. She liked to worry, but he was fine. Besides, there were more important things to worry about-

 

There was a knock at the door, but before David could even spare a glance, Patricia had already opened the door.

 

"Come in, son."

 

David looked over his shoulder, spotting his eldest son stepping into the wooden house gingerly. Kevin's brow furrowed as he scanned the room, his eyes lingering on both his parents for a moment before he finally spoke up. "What are you doing in here?"

 

"Your dad's ill, Kevin." Patricia turned to her son, brow furrowed in worry. "I think his blood pressure-"

"I'm not ill. I'm worried." David was quick to interrupt, "I'm worried. As any father would be with his son in prison-"

 

"David, our boy is innocent. Everything will be fine." Patricia said sternly, being the voice of reason she always was.

"What if it isn't?" He rebutted stubbornly, his voice raising with every word. "What if he's in there for seven years?!"

 

David stood from his chair, ready to make his way outside and to end the argument before it really started. "Prison doesn't make you a better person, Patricia." He looked his wife in the eye, brow knitted and voice teetering on the edge of anger. "Prison turns people into scum. Seven years in there and your life is  _ over _ -"

 

"Dad. Please." Kevin stepped in, voice just as reasonable as his mother's. David narrowed his eyes at his son, but just as he was about to open his mouth to excuse himself, the sound of sniffling made both of them look away.

 

Patricia had a hand over her mouth. Her eyes were red, and she couldn't speak for her ragged breathing and sniffing. She was on the verge of crying, but fighting to keep calm.

 

As soon as he saw her, Kevin sighed. He moved towards his mom and wrapped his arms around her, trying to convince and assure her that everything was going to be fine. "It's okay. It's all going to be alright, mom. I swear it's gonna be alright."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Patrick was trying his best to think back to that day.

 

He tried to reconstruct the scene in his head, he tried to remember where everyone and everything had been, he tried to recall what he'd done and in what order he'd done it.

 

He remembered the planter in front of him, he could see it in his head.

 

He could picture when a guard had taken away Gerard's tag, and he remembered one with his own name being its replacement.

 

He could see his bandage-less hands covered in soil, the little holes in the dirt that were filled with seeds, and all he could recall hearing was…silence?

 

Patrick's brow furrowed deeply. No, it hadn't been quiet, had it? That seemed wrong. He was sure there'd been noise, but-

 

No. No, he just had to try harder. He had to remember.

 

He'd been standing at the planter, his hands were covered in dirt, Andy was telling him about Gerard.

 

Andy was talking to him.

 

He'd been stood next to him, he'd been right there, he'd- he'd seen the planter, he'd seen the blue plastic bag-

 

He'd seen the SIM card.

 

Patrick opened his eyes slowly, and made a point of ignoring the fuzzy feeling of exhaustion that clung to him. He turned onto his other side, squinting out in the darkness of the cell and waiting for his eyes to adjust.

When they did, Patrick silently pushed himself out of bed- making sure the springs didn't creak when he moved, and stared over at Andy, who was still asleep in the bottom bunk across the room.

 

With a glance up at Frank- who was thankfully completely out of it, Patrick padded forwards across the cell's cold floor.

He came to a stop mere inches away from Andy, and drowsily tried his best to come up with a plan.

 

Andy was asleep, so, if he was careful, he could search his things, find the SIM card, and the other inmate would be none the wiser.

Then again, if Andy caught him in the act, Patrick might end up alienating one of the few people who weren't actively super pissed off at him.

 

Patrick exhaled quietly, brow knitting at the way his breath steamed in the cold air.

Screw it. This was important. This was his key out of here, and he needed to get it back.

 

With as much stealthiness as he could muster, Patrick crouched down towards the shelf at the head of Andy's bunk.

He squinted, trying his best to make everything out in the darkness. This wasn't going to be easy; His eyesight wasn't great during the daytime, but it was hopeless at night.

 

He sighed steadily, hoping it would calm down his shaky fingers as he reached for the books on the shelf first. Maybe Andy had hidden the bag inside the pages, that could be it.

With a long look at Andy- who was still motionless, Patrick pulled the first book back towards him. He opened it with care, but after a quick flip through the pages, there was nothing.

 

Patrick held back a sigh and leant towards the shelf again, pushing the empty book back onto it. Flexing his fingers, that were both freezing and trembling, Patrick turned his attention to the next book.

It was thicker, some pages were dog-eared, and the spine was creased from years of use. Patrick rifled through the pages again, rubbing at his eyes and wishing he had better vision.

Shitty eyesight or not though, there was nothing in this book either.

 

Patrick sighed quietly and slotted it back into the shelf, and then moved his hand towards the last book.

It had to be in here, there was nothing else on the shelf- it had to be in that last book.

 

He reached towards it, but the moment his fingers touched the cover, a hand grabbed his wrist.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It had been a long time since Patrick had been told off.

 

The last time he could remember being scolded, like a child, was when he'd accidentally spilled water all over a computer when he was fifteen. His parents hadn't been happy about it, and the little accident had warranted a thirty minute lecture about being careful and about how hard it was to earn money and support a family. That had been one of the most boring Saturdays of Patrick's life, and that was saying something.

 

But here he sat, on the benches in the dark bathroom, in his mid-twenties, being lectured by a criminal.

 

So it turns out Andy was just remarkably good at playing dead, and he'd been biding his time while Patrick had been nosing through his books.

One hand over his mouth and the other dragging him by the arm, Patrick had been marched off to the bathrooms, and he'd been completely convinced that Andy had turned on him, and that he was going to end up dead.

Instead, Andy ordered him to sit on a bench, and proceeded to give him a speech about being careful. And Patrick had felt fifteen years old again.

 

Andy had trailed off after a while, his lecture had strayed from his original point, and between the advice and scolding, he said something that Patrick had half been expecting to hear.

 

"-And yeah, I took the SIM card, but that was only because-"

 

The minute the words 'SIM' and 'card' reached Patrick's ears, he shot up to his feet and spoke so rapidly it felt like his tongue would fall off. "Andy, you can keep as much as you want, I only need enough for my bail, okay? I need to-"

 

Andy huffed in amusement, cutting Patrick's almost incomprehensible string of words short. "You think I want money?"

In silence, he reached into his pocket and tugged out the fateful blue plastic Patrick had been after all day.

 

Patrick swallowed past the lump in his throat, holding back on his urge to snatch it out of the man's inked hands and just run as far as he could.

His eyes flitted from Andy's face, to the bag, and back and forth until they ached.

 

Andy, who hadn't looked up from the bag, spoke softly after a little while. "I'm going to die in here. And I deserve it." He looked up at Patrick, shrugging lightly and gesturing at the bag. "I don't want this."

 

Patrick bit down on the inside of his cheek, and bit back a yell of ' _ Well, I fucking do, so give it back, thanks _ '.

 

"Two people have died for this. It's trouble." Andy continued, sounding much more reasonable than Patrick felt.

 

"Gerard died in one of the worst ways a person can die. And Chief Toro was shot in a parking lot when he went grocery shopping."

 

Patrick said nothing, he could only bare to stare at the plastic, and to fight down the nauseous feeling in his stomach.

 

Andy was right. Of course he was right. The noble thing to do was flush the SIM card and let the blood money rot in the ground. The right thing to do was appeal, to try and shorten his sentence, to fight this legally and properly.

 

"Look at me, Patrick."

 

Patrick obliged. He tore his eyes away from the tiny bag, and looked up at Andy instead.

Hard blue eyes stared back, shadowed and dark under a furrowed brow that was purely stern. He held up the bag again, shaking it once. "This is trouble. And if you keep chasing it, you'll never escape it."

 

The inside of Patrick's cheek was bleeding. His fingers twitched with the urge to take the SIM card, but his logical, moral side begged him to listen to Andy. He was right, of course he was right, but could Patrick endure, at the very worst, seven years in here?

He'd end up dead, maimed, or mutilated before he'd ever taste freedom again. He wasn't made for a place like prison. He was the exact opposite of a hardened criminal.

 

At his silence, Andy sighed heavily and let his shoulders drop. "Look, you're an adult, you know what you're doing, you can live with consequences or whatever, so…"

He held the blue bag out with a tiny shrug and the ghost of sad smile, "You decide."

 

The taste of iron flooding his mouth again, Patrick took the bag from him and stared down at it as his mind blanked.

 

Andy was being reasonable here, he was being morally decent.

 

…But, if Patrick was careful, and if he was quick, things couldn't go too badly, right?

 

Sure, it was a little illogical (and that had landed him here in the first place), but he had his dad on his side; His dad was smart, he could help him fix this, Patrick wasn't alone, and as long as his parents were around, he never  _ would _ be.

 

So, with a deep sigh and closed eyes, Patrick raised his head. He swallowed thickly, opened his eyes, held out his hand, and tried to ignore the cloud of shame that was hanging over him. "I have to get out of here, Andy."

 

Andy gave him a sad smile with pure disappointment in his eyes, and gave the bag to Patrick. "Alright then."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The sounds of sirens blasted through Pete's ears, kicking his migraine up to a full blown headache.

 

He did his best to avoid glancing over his shoulder too often; He knew perfectly well who he'd see, and he also knew how much said person would annoy him.

 

He opened the door that separated solitary confinement from the rest of the prison, and held it open for the prisoner behind him to step through.

 

Ryan ducked out from behind him and through the door, all dressed in one of the red jumpsuits they hadn't had to use for years; It was a bit of a primitive system when he thought about it, red was meant to scream 'Danger!' It was supposed to warn everyone else to stay away, prisoners dressed in red were to be avoided, dealt with at an arm's length, etc.

 

It seemed to have the opposite effect though. All it did was spread fear. The higher up the chart the colour was, the more respected the person was.

The higher ups had caught onto it quickly, and all the inmates had been forced back into yellow. Now, orange jumpsuits, red uniforms- they were only for people who were truly supposed to be avoided, people who should be feared. Or people who had tried to escape, but, that hadn't happened in years.

 

"Where are we going?"

 

Pete glanced at Ryan from over his shoulder, and did his best to stay professional. "You're being moved from solitary to the Dangerous Prisoners regime."

 

They went through another door, that Pete held open once again, and finally reached the courtyard.

This place was where the normal inmates pissed away months of their lives by sitting around on benches, but the normal courtyard wasn't for dangerous prisoners.

 

They had a different place, and it was more like a cage.

 

No sports, nowhere to sit, and nothing that could be improvised into a weapon. It was a square plot, surrounded by a fence, and the barbed wire on the top made sure nobody would even attempt climbing out; It was only tiles, metal, and concrete, and Ryan Ross deserved every bit of it.

 

He opened the gate, nodding Ryan inside wordlessly and watching him pace around for a few seconds as he locked it.

"You'll have no contact with other inmates, you'll only be allowed outside when the others are asleep." Pete continued, making a point to glare at Ryan. "Any questions?" He added begrudgingly.

 

To his annoyance, Ryan only sighed happily and turned to smile at Pete widely, even if it didn't reach his eyes. "You can go now."

Pete squinted, not too happy about more or less taking orders from the red-clad, caged psychopath, but in the end, he had a job to do. He nodded jerkily, and moved away, making a beeline towards the doors that opened back into the main building, all as he tried to put Ryan out of mind for the rest of the day.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Patrick wondered if he should start feeling concerned at how much time he was spending hiding in bathroom stalls.

Regardless, he had leapt out of bed as soon as the sirens had rang out, he'd ignored the disapproving look Andy had given him, and he'd slipped into a stall once again.

 

He leant back against the wall as he fidgeted with the mobile, pulling out Pete's old SIM card and replacing it with Gerard's.

Patrick made a habit of pressing his ear against the door, listening as intently as he could for the sounds of officers or prisoners that didn't like him. He furrowed his brow, focusing everything on the sounds outside.

 

"Attention!"

 

Patrick jumped, but settled for biting down on his lip as he leant towards the door again, and listened.

 

"I'm the new Chief Jailer."

 

It was a definitely woman, she sounded young, but stricter than any other guard he'd heard before.

She called out across the room, and Patrick could hear her sharp footsteps pacing the floor. "And if anyone thinks I'm an idiot, I want them to tell me. To my face."

 

She was brave, he'd give her that.

 

With a shake of his head, Patrick looked back down at the phone. It was more important than new staff and introductions.

 

'NEW SIM CARD FOUND'

 

The message flashed across the screen boldly, and just as Patrick moved to figure out where to go from there, his phone started screaming.

 

Well, not screaming. More like, flatlining.

 

The first thing that crashed into him was panic.

He clapped a hand over the speaker, completely lost on what to do. Was this normal? What kind of demon phone did Pete own, and why was it ruining his entire fucking plan?

Holding back pressed breathing, Patrick stuck his ear to the door and listened, praying nobody had heard it- praying that nobody  _ could _ hear it from where it muffled under his hand.

 

It was silent for what felt like a minute, but was most likely seconds. Just as Patrick thought it was safe, just as he pulled away and turned his attention back to the wailing phone-

 

"Open this door!"

 

The words came with a loud knock on the door that made Patrick jump away with a violently ringing ear.

"Fuck-" He hissed, looking down at the mobile in a renewed kind of panic.

 

"Did you hear me?!"

 

He tried the buttons, he tried the volume, he tried fucking everything-

 

"I SAID-"

 

Fuck.

Not thinking clearly in the slightest, Patrick ripped the SIM card out of the phone, and tossed it into the trash can.

 

"OPEN. THE. D-"

 

Without a look back and stuffing the phone into his pocket, Patrick finally pushed out of the stall, making a split second decision to try and lie to the new chief.

 

Technically, she was new. She didn't know he, specifically, was here for white-collar theft; He could pretend to be a cold blooded murderer, or maybe a gang member!

 

…He didn't really look like one, but he could still try.

 

"Hurry up next time." She growled, vaguely reminding Patrick of his grandma's tiny, aggressive dog. Keeping his face passive, Patrick shrugged, not feeling particularly intimidated, but also trying his best to take advantage of being a prisoner in a high security prison.

 

"Move." The new chief hissed again, and Patrick obliged without a word. He couldn't help glancing back at the stall though.

 

It made him nervous, but-

He furrowed his brow and shook his head at himself with a steady exhale. He'd be back for the SIM card later, when the chief was gone. And hopefully, with a bit of silence and some time, he could figure out what to do with it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"You and I aren't so different."

 

Pete tried not to roll his eyes.

Sadly, he hadn't been able to ignore Ryan today. No, he'd been set the task of watching the 'dangerous' prisoners pace around in their pen, and right now, the only dangerous prisoner was Ryan. And he was boring. Or calm. Maybe calm was a better word for it.

 

All he did was stand around. Sometimes, he'd lean on the wall, then he'd walk over to the fence and lean on that. He sat down occasionally, and he paced around at other times.

It was like watching a frustrated, docile lion in a cage. But unlike a lion, Ryan could talk.

 

"We're both trapped in this prison." The prisoner in the dark red jumpsuit continued, his head lolling to the side as he stared at Pete. "Just on different sides of the fence."

He flashed a smile at the officer's silence, "The only difference is that I can fuck with you, but you can't fuck with me." Ryan raised his brow and pushed forwards, dragging his feet until his nose was touching metal wire.

 

"Because that's  _ brutality _ ."

 

Ryan half pouted and half whispered, and while Pete felt like telling him to shut up, he realized the man had a point. And it was unbelievably annoying.

With a squint, Pete took a sure step forwards, drawling his words. " _ Really _ ?"

 

Ryan grinned, but it didn't reach his eyes. It never did. "You're one of the good guys." The prisoner huffed bemusedly and shrugged, "You won't put a plastic bag over my head and leave me in some corner to die, will you?"

Pete squinted, the sun that peeked out from behind the prison was making his eyes burn.

 

"D'you want me to prove it to you?" Ryan continued, eyes still on Pete, and his hands shaking free from his pockets.

Before Pete could speak a word, Ryan lurched forwards, curled his fingers into the chainlink fence, and spat at the other man square in the face.

 

Pete couldn't help the way he flinched, he couldn't help the way he swore and wiped his face with a disgusted noise. When he looked back up at Ryan, the prisoner was back in his shadowy corner, looking unbearably smug.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Stump."

 

With a sharp inhale that made his lungs sting, Patrick jumped and looked up at the officer that was supposed to follow him around, since Ryan was probably intent on horribly murdering him.

His face fell.

 

Ugh.

 

Officer Walker.

 

Fuck, he'd forgotten about this guy.

Patrick gave him a jerky nod but said nothing. He stepped around him and pressed forwards.

He needed his SIM card back, and well- there was only one person who would be willing to help him.

 

Andy had made his disapproval extremely clear, so that left one person Patrick hadn't alienated thus far.

 

Joe.

 

And he was pretty sure he knew where Joe would be; He worked at supply storage on Tuesdays and Thursdays, Patrick was sure that's where he'd be. At least, that's what he was hoping.

If Joe wasn't working today, that would mean around two hours of searching every room in the prison- with Walker following him around like a lost puppy. That could potentially send him to solitary.

 

As Patrick made his way to where he hoped Joe would be, he made a rule of not looking back at Walker. Having a prison guard following him around was bad enough, but to be seen 'sucking up' to one would be a whole other league of 'worse'.

 

But after all, Walker wasn't there to make his life easier.

 

"Where are you going, Stump?" The officer said lowly, sounding a little more suspicious than he would've liked.

Patrick resisted the urge to glance behind him, and did his best to make up an excuse. "I need a spare uniform."

 

"What happened to the ones you already have?"

 

Patrick shrugged lightly, glad Walker couldn't see the hesitation on his face. "I'm wearing one of them, and someone ripped the sleeve off the other one."

 

There was silence for a moment, but the minute Walker was about to push him for a more detailed explanation he definitely didn't have, a prisoner knocked Patrick's shoulder and growled at him.

 

" _ Rat _ ."

 

"Shut it!" Walker yelled from behind him, losing his cool in less than a second. Patrick, on the other hand, ignored the inmate and kept walking as quickly as he could without being told off for running.

 

"Rat." Yet another prisoner glared from a bench, his arms were crossed and he looked just a little extra pissed.

 

Patrick ignored him too.

 

By the time he actually pushed through supply's frosted glass doors, he'd been called 'Rat' twenty-six times. He'd counted.

On the brighter side, Joe had been just where Patrick had expected him to be. Behind the counter, half-heartedly reading a book, and looking more than a little bored.

 

"Trohman, get him a uniform. He needs a spare." Walker announced, before moving to lean against the wall.

Joe's head jerked up from the pages, and he raised a brow at Patrick. "What happened to yours?"

Patrick shrugged and regurgitated the lie he'd given to the officer. "Someone ripped the sleeve off."

 

Joe squinted dubiously, a tiny smile teasing at the corners of his mouth. He knew Patrick was lying.

Patrick raised his brow, and cocked his head towards Walker as subtly as he could.

 

"Oh." Joe said simply, before ducking his head and turning towards the shelves of basic supplies behind him. He clicked his tongue before grabbing a uniform from one of the piles, before glancing at Patrick over his shoulder. "Is that why RoboCop is following you around, then?"

 

"Careful, Trohman." Walker's nose wrinkled, and his shoulders tensed up a little more, but with that, he slipped out of the room- walkie talkie firmly in hand.

 

Patrick spared him a glance, watching the officer's silhouette beyond the glass, before bracing his arms on the counter and leaning forwards towards Joe. "Ryan is out of solitary."

Joe turned, folding the yellow uniform with a dramatic grimace on his face. "Fuck."

 

"Exactly."

 

With a long exhale, Patrick decided telling Joe about what was going on was okay.

Joe had helped him before, and even if it had been a little unorthodox, it had worked. Maybe he could help again. Maybe he'd have a different perspective, a different idea…maybe he'd just be good moral support.

 

He flicked his eyes back upwards, "Joe?"

"Hm?" Joe didn't look up as he placed the neatly folded uniform on the counter.

 

"I have some issues."

 

"Like,  _ mental _ issues?"

 

Patrick snorted and rolled his eyes, "Sure, but-" He balled his hands into fists, staying impassive when his nails bit into his palms. "Frank is getting serious."

Joe shrugged, "What do you mean, 'getting' serious? He  _ is _ serious, it's not-"

 

"Joe, I have 24 hours to pay him back, and I'm broke."

 

The other inmate stared at him for a minute, then he stared at Walker (still pacing around and speaking into his walkie talkie) beyond the door, and finally, he sighed, and nodded. "How much do you owe him?"

 

Patrick gulped.

 

"…Technically, it wasn't my fault-"

 

"Patrick, how much do you owe Frank?"

 

Patrick tried a nervous grin, that came out along with a shaky laugh. "2,600 dollars."

Joe looked shocked, there was no two ways about it. But after a few seconds of said shock, he sighed and shook his head like a disappointed parent after a terrible report card. "Patrick, you can't owe Frank money-"

 

"I  _ know _ -"

 

"-he'll plant drugs on you, he'll turn you into a prostitute, he'll make you b-"

 

" _ JOE _ ." Patrick cut him off, eyes wide and mouth parted. "I know it's bad, I know  _ he's _ bad, but- I need a solution, alright? I already know I fucked up."

 

Not without another sigh, Joe dropped his list of the lovely things Frank had done to people, and crossed his arms.

A thoughtful look crossed his face, and after a few moments, he hummed, and looked back down at Patrick. "You still have a phone, right?"

 

Patrick shrugged and nodded, "Yeah, but- I'm not selling it-" Joe only shook his head and held a hand out. "Give it to me, I'll get you money."

 

Patrick squinted…but handed his phone over.

 

"I swear to fucking god, do not sell my phone."

 

Joe clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes, but before he could say something clever, officer Walker strode back into the room, and Joe slid straight back into business mode.

 

"There you go." Joe slid the folded uniform across the counter. Patrick nodded and took the uniform, before trying a small smile at Joe. "Thank you."

The other inmate only nodded back, and turned back to his vague 'work', as Patrick left, a new uniform in hand, and Walker still trailing behind him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"How's Charlie doing? Oh he did? Really?"

 

"Ten seconds." Joe droned from where he leant against the wall of the bathroom stall. His arms were crossed, and all he could do (and had been doing for the past hour) was listen to the mundane conversation, warn people when their time was almost up, and collect their payments.

 

The man that was currently talking away into Patrick's phone was about the twentieth person to have paid for the luxury of a phone call.

 

When Joe warned him about how much time he had left, he turned, squinted, and shoved another ten dollar note into Joe's hand with a growl. "5 more minutes."

Joe nodded, before leaning back against the wall and idly listening to the man's conversation about his son's report card.

 

Five minutes later (Joe had been counting), the man crooned a final few words into the phone. "Alright, alright- well, just tell him his dad loves him, okay? Tell him to be good. Alright, alright, love you, bye."

With that, he gave the phone back and slumped out of the open stall, with Joe close behind.

 

Joe peeked out from behind the door, and took a look at the line waiting to use the phone. It stretched all the way around the stalls, past the benches- and it almost reached the showers.

He blew out a long breath, and finally, waved the next person in. It was going to be a long day.

  
  
  
  


By the end of it all, Joe's pockets were heavy with notes.

His idea had worked a lot better than he'd expected it to. But, then again, phone calls were pretty valuable in here. Especially ones that weren't being monitored.

 

The final inmate that had been in the queue ended his call, handed the mobile back, and left the stall, all in silence.

A few moments after he left, Joe followed him outside and shut the stall door behind him, but before he could take another step, the phone in his hand started buzzing.

 

He blinked down at the screen. Unknown number.

He bit down on his tongue, and with a steady exhale, answered the call and pressed the phone to his ear.

 

"Hello?"

 

"Uh hey. It's…the owner of this phone?"

 

Shit, Joe  _ might _ have forgotten about him.

 

"Oh hey! Look, I'm really sorry." Joe cleared his throat and tried an excuse. "I've been in hospital with my daughter since 5am, she's had a fever all night, and I just- I'm so sorry."

There was a moment of silence, before the officer on the other end stuttered. "Don't worry about it, it's fine-"

 

"I'll call you when I get out of here. On the number you called from yesterday?" Joe followed up quickly, hoping to end the call before he slipped up in any way possible. And thankfully, Pete was only sympathetic to him and his non-existent daughter.

 

"Yeah, that's- that's fine. Good luck with everything. Bye."

 

"Bye. Thanks- Sorry again." Joe hurried, before quickly pulling the phone away and ending the call. The second he turned the phone off, he sighed deeply and slumped against the stall doors. That had been close. If someone else had been using the phone, if someone else had picked up-

Joe shook his head. Everything was fine. It had all been fine, and it would continue being fine.

 

He shoved the phone into his pocket, his fingers brushing against the crumpled paper. A small, proud smile worked its way onto his face; His idea had worked. Now he only had to find Patrick.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


"Could you…" Patrick wrinkled his nose and gestured with his healthy hand. "Like, just- move back a bit, please?"

 

"It's for your own safety." The officer droned, still following Patrick across the courtyard stoically. Patrick sighed harshly and turned to face him, a sudden wave of irritation taking over him. "Well, I'd rather you weren't stuck to me like a leech or something, so-"

 

"Hey!"

 

Patrick turned, brow furrowed as he searched for the source of the voice. And when he saw who it belonged to, his blood went cold and he stopped dead in his tracks.

 

Ryan stood on the other side of the fence that separated the 'dangerous' pen from the rest of the courtyard. He was dressed in a red jumpsuit, his hands were balled into fists, and he was glaring.

 

He surged forwards, eyes full of anger and hands practically trembling with it. But when he reached up to grab at the fence, Pete swept in and locked a hand around his wrist. "Don't even think about it."

Ryan exhaled sharply and glared at the officer, but Pete only dragged him towards the doors with a mutter of: "Just get inside."

 

Patrick stared after them, a mixture of dread and guilt in his stomach.

 

Dread, because, obviously, Ryan Ross was legitimately pissed at him. And guilt because… _ Pete _ .

 

He shook his head and lowered it as officer Walker cleared his throat behind him. "Move. You're expected at the greenhouse."

Patrick tried not to roll his eyes, but he obliged and walked.

 

When they stepped into the almost-deserted greenhouse, the officer finally took the hint. "I'll be outside if you need me." Walker said, and wasted no time in leaving the tent-like building.

"Doubt it." Patrick muttered to himself once he was out of an earshot.

 

He glanced over his shoulder, craning his neck to make sure Walker was gone before he moved towards his planter, sparing a few nods to the few inmates that were already working on their own plants.

 

Patrick sighed and stared down at the soil.

 

It was still wrecked from his searching the other day, and he really wasn't in the mood to start all over again.

He bit down on the ragged skin of his inner cheek; What he really needed to do was get back to the bathroom, he needed to get his SIM card back. Oh fuck- and, on that note, he had to find Joe, and get his phone back too.

 

Patrick glanced over his shoulder, squinting around to see if he could spot Walker outside. He bit down on his cheek and furrowed his brow. Screw it.

 

He lurched away from his planter and took off not-quite-running (that would get him spotted immediately).

Patrick ducked out of the greenhouse and crept back into the courtyard, losing himself amongst the other prisoners. Now that Walker was gone, that meant he could actually get down to business.

He sighed heavily and went back over his plan in his head, counting the steps out on his fingers.

 

  1. He needed to get back to the bathroom.
  2. He needed to find his SIM card (and he'd have to dig through a trash can to do it- he was definitely not looking forwards to that).
  3. He needed to track Joe down and get his phone back.
  4. He had to figure out how to use the-



  
  


"Hey, Rat!"

 

Patrick was slightly annoyed about being interrupted from his list, but looked up at the voice anyway.

 

Mikey stood at the edge of the sprayed-on basketball court, an orange ball in his hands and a narrowed stare that was being thrown Patrick's way. Brilliant, almost everybody was angry at him these days.

 

"Did you hear me, Rat?" Mikey called again. It was hard believe this guy was Gerard's brother sometimes, but hey, Patrick hadn't known him that well-

 

"HEY." Mikey seemed personally offended at Patrick's silence, and he took a step forwards. "You're not going deaf, are you? Did you fucking hear me?"

 

Patrick had half a mind to just keep on walking, but instead, he stayed put and just tried not to groan. "What do you want?"

 

Mikey's eye twitched for a second, before a wide smile split over his face. "Want a game?" He threw the ball up a short distance and swiftly caught it again, and all Patrick could do was raise an eyebrow. "Uh. No, thank y-"

 

Patrick hadn't even finished his sentence when the smile dropped from Mikey's face. He drew his arm back, and threw the ball square at Patrick, arm tense and shoulder locked. The last thing Patrick saw was black, and the last thing he smelt was rubber.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Hey."

 

Patrick was cold. That was the first thing he registered. Not where he was, why he was there, or why that voice was speaking to him. He was just really cold.

 

With a shiver, he blinked his eyes open with a struggle. The lids felt heavy and it felt like they were being pricked with needles. Patrick groaned, burying his face in his hands and blocking out the offending light.

 

He glanced under the covers, wondering if any other part of him would be wrapped in bandages. Instead, there was only white t-shirt and underwear. No wonder he was so fucking cold.

 

Dropping the blanket, he fell back down to his pillow with a pained hiss. Patrick's head lolled on the pillow and finally he squinted up at Joe, asking the most obvious question he could've ever asked at that moment. "Joe?"

 

The man almost rolled his eyes, but settled on taking a seat on the bed instead. "How are you?" He nodded towards the new bandage, "I heard you fell."

 

He made a small 'tsk' and shook his head softly, as to not anger his pounding migraine. "I'm not a woman with an abusive husband or something. I didn't ' _ fall down the stairs _ '."

Patrick sat up, a twisted scowl taking hold of his features. "Mikey nailed me in the head with a basketball." He sighed, one hand moving to gingerly touch his bandaged head.

 

He hissed and drew back. It hurt like a bitch; Everything above his neck was beating away with pulse, and Patrick was pretty sure he had the beginnings of a black eye on his left cheekbone.

 

Joe only looked him up and down, and quickly confirmed it for him. He nodded towards Patrick's left eye, a small, sympathetic grimace on his face. "That is quite a bruise."

 

"Hey! You!"

 

Their heads turned towards the voice, and Patrick couldn't help rolling his eyes when he spotted Walker leaning against the sick bay wall. "If you've already seen the doctor, get going." He nodded towards the doors.

Joe nodded, but not before reaching into his pocket. And the next thing Patrick knew, Joe was pushing a roll of notes into his hands, all tied together with an elastic band.

 

His mouth fell open at Joe's proud smile, "520 dollars so far. Hide it properly." He motioned over to Patrick's uniform, where it sat sloppily folded on the bedside table.

Patrick nodded wordlessly and dug his hand under the covers, fingers squeezing the money like it would disappear into thin air if he didn't.

 

"The phone's charging, but, just let me know if you need it for-"

 

"Trohman, are you deaf?" Walker pushed off the wall, wide eyes glaring and shoulders tensed up when he stopped, and pointed towards the door. "Going." Joe nodded, giving Patrick a final nod before leaving the room- all with Walker glaring holes into his back.

 

Patrick sat up a little straight and looked down at his uniform on the bedside table. Okay, the situation wasn't ideal: his head hurt, he was totally gonna have a black eye, he had a new bandage to explain to his parents, and a SIM card that would tell him where 9 million dollars were buried was in a trash can.

He had a lot to do, and not much time to do it in before the day was over. Who knows how long he'd been lying in a hospital bed, he needed to move quickly.

Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, Patrick tried not to think about the cold as he reached for his unifor-

 

"Stump, you're not going anywhere."

 

He slowly glanced over his shoulder, brow furrowed so deeply it ached. Walker shook his head again, "The doctor has to make sure you don't have a concussion or something. So you're under observation."

 

"How long?" Patrick said quietly, heart sinking and beating faster all at once. The officer crossed his arms again, shoulders bracing back against the wall. "24 hours."

 

Slowly, thanks to how sluggish his headache was making his motor skills, Patrick shifted back into the bed and lay down. He drew the blankets up to his chin with a shiver, and swallowed a sigh. When Patrick's head met the scratchy, plastic pillow again, only one thing crossed his mind:

 

_ Fuck _ .

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Watching Ryan had to be one of the worst tasks he'd ever been given.

Like, in his entire career. From learning division in kindergarten, to cleaning up sick in a supermarket, to now- this was the worst thing he'd ever been made to do.

It wasn't like the prisoner was making escape attempts every five seconds, and he wasn't constantly trying to attack Pete either- no, he would've preferred that. Instead, Ryan was smart about it.

 

And he'd been right earlier.

 

It wasn't like Pete could curb stomp him or throw him out of a window- he'd be instantly fired, and who knows, he could be arrested.

But Ryan…Ryan could spit at him, insult him, and annoy him to the point of wanting to rip his own hair out all day long. And Pete couldn't do a single fucking thing about it.

 

Pete stood in the canteen, hands buried in his pockets as he blankly watched Ryan. He was only really allowed to step in if the man started talking to other inmates, and he was doing nothing of the sort.

Tray in one hand and a plastic glass of water in the other, Ryan moved towards the tables. But when Pete realized he was heading for tables full of normal prisoners, he was obliged to actually do something.

 

"Ross, move away from the others." He stepped forwards, but all Ryan did was stare. "I can't sit here?"

Pete shook his head, and the red-clad inmate only cocked his head. Oh god, he was going to start arguing. Pete was almost tempted to drag him back to the pen in the courtyard- 'misconduct' could go fuck itself.

 

"Why not?" Ryan blinked innocently, as if he  _ wasn't _ interned in a high security prison. Pete held back an irritated sigh, "Because you're classified as 'Dangerous' and have no right to contact-"

Ryan made an indignant noise and stormed away to the empty side of the canteen, slamming his tray down as loudly as he could.

 

Pete rolled his eyes; For a criminal, Ryan sure was childish sometimes.

He looked away from the man, who had taken to snapping his plastic fork into little pieces, and glanced around the canteen instead.

Call it wishful thinking, but his eyes landed on the exit first (God, what he wouldn't give to swap places with Josh or Walker), and to his surprise, there stood the Governor.

 

She was flanked by another officer- Pete couldn't remember the guy's name, if he was honest, and stared in his direction.

With a quick gesture, she waved him over. One glance back at Ryan (who was now snapping his knife into pieces) to make sure he wasn't getting himself in trouble, and Pete obliged, weaving through tables and inmates to reach her.

 

"Any problems with Ryan?" She said stiffly, sparing a flick of her eyes over at the man dressed in red in a sea of yellow.

 

"No." Pete tried not to shrug; this  _ was _ his boss, after all, he had to be polite. Sometimes.

 

The Governor nodded jerkily, her eyes glazing over, and Pete could only squint.

Something seemed wrong, she'd usually press him for details, or suggest ways Ryan might've been picking on him. Instead, she just sat there in uncomfortable silence.

 

"Are you okay?" Pete attempted, and to his surprise, she didn't snap out of her daze or make up any excuses. "I called Ray's wife."

 

Pete froze, a ghostly chill stiffening his spine. Guilt flooded every inch of him, making his throat constrict and his heart sink like a stone in a lake. "And?"

 

The Governor shrugged. It was unlike her.

When she spoke, her voice was thick and quiet, like she was holding back a tidal wave of something trying to escape her. "She's in the hospital."

The woman looked up, "She's had four nervous breakdowns." Her eyes were still dull, and she was even stiffer than before. "The babies are with his parents."

 

Pete closed his eyes, exhaled deeply and crossed his arms loosely. He wasn't sure he could speak if he wanted to at this point, his throat felt downright swollen.

 

"She could barely speak." The Governor said, crossing her arms just like Pete had. "She told me she wanted to die, or- she  _ stuttered _ that she wanted to…"

Pete squeezed his eyes closed a little tighter, ducking his head and biting his tongue all at once. What was he supposed to say? That he was sorry? That Ray's grieving wife had his condolences?

 

His boss suddenly seemed to snap out of her daze, and she shook her head like she was clearing it of dust. "I just put the phone down, and I- Well- Never mind, I'll see you later."

 

Pete wasn't ready to open his eyes just yet, but he did anyway. He glanced over his shoulder, eyes falling on Ryan- who still sat at the empty table like he was in exile, and something…occurred to him.

 

"Hey, sorry I'm late, there was some stuff going on in the courtyard-"

It was Josh, Pete knew his voice very well by now, so he didn't feel the need to glance back. Instead, he just stared at Ryan, trying to remember what the man was reminding him of.

 

It was like when you forget a word, and you struggle and try to remember it. It's on the tip of your tongue, but it just  _ won't _ -

 

_ "They- He-" Ray exhaled shakily, raising his head but keeping his eyes tightly closed. "Someone got into my house and- They rec-" _

 

That morning in the locker room. The reason his guilt had been eating him alive.

He started moving forwards, Josh's voice was going unheard in his ear.

 

_ "Somebody's watching me. On the outside. Somebody's watching my family, Pete." He choked on another sigh, dropping his forehead into a hand and hunching his shoulders. "I'm fucked. I'm so fucked-" _

 

It hadn't been a random act of violence, Pete knew that. Who just shoots a man in the back for no reason? Nothing had been stolen, nothing had been touched, it had just been murder, plain and simple. There was a motive.

He weaved past the tables and the inmates, eyes still locked on the red fabric.

 

_ "Forget about everything, Ray." _

 

And who had a motive for killing Ray? Who would murder a father of two, easily silenced prison warden in cold blood?

He reached the empty side of the canteen, Ryan was two feet away.

 

_ Pete shook his head softly, and after a pause, he looked up solemnly. "Who asked you to do it?" _

 

It was so obvious, he'd been so blind. How hadn't he seen it earlier?

 

_ Ray sighed shakily, and Ray spat out his answer like dirt. _

 

Everything fell into place.

 

_ "Ryan Ross." _

 

Pete punched Ryan in the back of the head and threw him to the floor, heart leaping at the loud thud he made when he met the stone floor.

The inmate coughed and looked up through red eyes as he grabbed at his ribs, but Pete was already stalking back out of the canteen. Through buzzing ears, he distantly heard Josh trying to settle things down, but he kept walking like he couldn't stop.

 

He looked down at this knuckles as he kept moving at a brutal pace. They were red. He wondered if he'd split Ryan's head open.

 

He was going to get in trouble for this.

 

Pete dropped his hand, all his thoughts and feelings muffling away until they were silent. It didn't matter. It had been worth it.

And besides, now he knew who had murdered Ray.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Excuse me? Doctor Reynolds?" Patrick poked out from behind the office door, squinting over at the doctor and trying to hide his discomfort.

After what Joe had told him, Patrick had made a point of avoiding the doctor, but it was specifically unavoidable this time.

 

The man looked up from the papers on his desk, a broad smile spreading over his face, but before he even tried to speak, Patrick cut him off. "I feel totally fine. Could I go back to my cell? Please?"

 

Reynolds raised his eyebrows like a disapproving parent. "Oh no, no- I can't discharge you."

Patrick bit down on the inside of his cheek and tried not to glare. God fucking damn it, he needed his SIM card, he had no time to waste. What if someone found it? What if all the trash cans were emptied? He was on a fucking schedule-

 

"Actually, go sit down, Patrick. I need to check your pupils." The doctor nodded towards the empty examination table at the edge of his office, and Patrick held back a groan.

 

He nodded jerkily and moved towards the table, trying not to glance over his shoulder when he heard footsteps and the office door closing.

When he reached the table, he turned and sat down, unsure whether to keep his eyes off or on Doctor Reynolds.

 

"You've had a concussion and six stitches to your head." Reynolds hummed as he approached, fetching a small flashlight from his coat's chest pocket.

He softly gripped Patrick's chin and tilted his head upwards, shining the light in his eyes. Patrick tried not to grimace.

 

Joe's voice was the only thing he could hear, apart from his heartbeat and the doctor's interested humming.

' _ Young, short, kinda small jailbirds _ .' Patrick's nose wrinkled. Gross.

 

The flashlight clicked off and Reynolds stuffed it back into his pocket. "Any dizziness? Vertigo?"

Patrick stubbornly shook his head, "None." His eyes flicked up towards Reynold's and he swallowed past the lump in his throat, before almost squeaking out another assurance. "I swear, I'm fine."

He ducked his head and threw up his bandaged hand. "Like, my wrist still hurts but my head is-"

 

"Oh?"

 

Patrick looked up, suddenly regretting his choice of words.

 

"Let me take a look at your hand."

 

Patrick held back a sigh as Reynolds took his bandaged hand, starting the long and painful process of poking and prodding until he figured out which part was messed up.

It was completely innocent, totally innocuous, and yet, Patrick felt so freaked out his skin was covered in unhappy goosebumps.

 

' _ It'll make your life easier. Just sayin'. _ '

 

Patrick really wished he could stop Joe's shitty advice from running around in his head.

 

"Does it hurt?"

 

Patrick glanced up at Reynolds again, then down at his hand- that was being bent forwards at the wrist. He shook his head, "S'fine."

The doctor pulled the hand backwards this time, and repeated the same question. Patrick gave the same answer.

 

"Very good." The man said after some time of staring at Patrick's wrist and twisting the life out of it. He let go and Patrick dropped his hand, flexing his achy fingers uncomfortably.

 

"Can't you discharge me? Please?"

 

Reynolds huffed, "I'm afraid-"

 

"You said you could help me." Patrick said quietly, raising his chin even though all he wanted to do was duck it and look away.

He was gonna have to follow Joe's advice. As much as he fucking loathed it, he needed to get out of the sick bay. He needed that SIM card.

 

"I'm not asking for much." Patrick blinked slowly and cocked his head, a feeling of disgust at himself churning in the pit of his stomach.

"I just need time." He looked up through his eyelashes, judging the reaction on the doctor's face.

 

Thankfully (or, kind of horrifically, actually), Reynolds didn't seem as disgusted as Patrick felt.

 

His eyes looked darker than before, and he swallowed so thickly Patrick could've sworn his Adam's apple was about to burst out of his throat.

Patrick tried to stop his hands from shaking, and gently placed one on the doctor's arm. "I'm not like the others in here, I…" He looked up again, batting his eyelashes one last time and hating every millisecond of it. "You have to give me a little time."

 

The doctor smiled slowly and Patrick felt like he was going to be sick.

But, as much as he hated the fact, it worked. Reynolds cupped the injured side of Patrick's face and ran his thumb over the bruised cheekbone, his darkened eyes glazing over. "I'll discharge you."

 

Patrick didn't even want to try a smile. He was sure he'd either burst out crying for his mom or he'd bitch slap Reynolds- and he'd come so far, he wasn't about to fuck it up at the last, disgusting hurdle.

"Thank you." Patrick said softly, standing and heading towards the door when the doctor moved aside.

He reached the door and grabbed the handle, but the very second he went to pull it open, Reynolds spoke up from behind him.

 

"And Patrick?"

 

Patrick inhaled, exhaled, and glanced over his shoulder.

 

Reynolds was still smiling like the cat that got the cream, and it only got worse with every moment that passed. "Remember to come and take your Xanax tomorrow, alright?"

Patrick was pretty sure he could feel his hands shaking.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Go on."

Patrick nodded his exasperated thanks to officer Walker as he walked straight past him and into the bathrooms.

He wasted no time in rushing to the fateful stall and closing the door behind him. Patrick ducked down, crouching beside the trash can and giving a long exhale as he prepared himself.

 

Okay. He could do this. He'd just practically propositioned a middle aged man, this was comparably less gross.

 

Patrick tugged the lid off the trash can and instantly gagged. He dropped it and opted to bury his nose in the crook of his elbow, while his other hand did the dirty work.

His eyes squeezed closed as his uninjured, un-bandaged hand dug around through the trash can. He gagged more than once, and just as the bile crept up his throat, Patrick paused, up to his forearm in a trashcan.

 

There was someone laughing outside. And it sounded suspiciously like Frank.

 

Patrick bit his cheek and tried not to freak out. Stay calm. He just had to stay calm. He'd just dug through a toilet trash can for no fucking reason, he was probably going to get a Staph infection, god fucking damn it.

With a little more violence than he'd meant to, he yanked his arm out of the trash can, but kept his nose buried in the crook of his free elbow stubbornly. His brow furrowed as he stood and shoved his way out of the stall- before directly walking over to the sinks.

 

He washed his hand (or,  _ arm _ ) twice, being especially liberal with the soap as he tried to forget the horrible experience, and turned to glare at Frank- who had indeed been the one laughing.

 

He was still laughing, and one thing became very clear to Patrick.

 

The SIM card was no longer in the trash can.

 

Call it intuition, but he was pretty sure Frank had stolen it, and while the thought of Frank digging around in a trashcan was oddly satisfying, Patrick was a little too pissed off for it to matter.

 

He shrugged away from the sink and paced over to Frank like a storm. Mere inches away from the other man, Patrick stopped and craned his neck upwards to look him in the eye. "Where is it?" He growled, feeling uncharacteristically  _ angry _ .

 

"Where's what?" Frank and feigning innocence just didn't go together.

Patrick said nothing and only narrowed his eyes, but Frank only chuckled and wiped at his eyes.

 

"Well-" His smile died, being replaced by a kind of subdued, dangerous rage. "I'd been hoping to find the phone you bought with  _ my _ money, to repay some of your debt, but all I found was the SIM card."

 

Patrick wanted to punch Frank in the face.

 

He wondered what it would sound like when his nose broke, and he wondered would Frank cry out or grunt.

 

Patrick inhaled and exhaled. He had to stay calm. There was no way he would win a fight against Frank. He had to play this his way.

 

He dropped onto his heels and tried his best to look calm. "D'you really think money is a problem for me?"

Frank looked him up and down, and huffed bemusedly.

 

Not the reaction he'd been wanting, but Patrick could still make this work.

 

"I stole two million dollars. I can pay the price of your drugs. Plus interest." Patrick blinked innocently.

Playing innocent agreed with him, his mom said had a 'naturally innocent face' and he'd never found much use for it outside, but it was coming in pretty handy right now.

 

Frank's face dropped and interest glittered in his eyes, so Patrick continued, feeling he was heading in the right direction. "Getting it in here is the hard part, but-" He reached into his pocket, pulling out the roll of dollar notes Joe had given him earlier.

 

He handed them to Frank and smiled sweetly. "It's a downpayment. 520 dollars."

To his surprise, Frank smiled too. "Thanks, Patrick." He nudged the smaller man in the shoulder, and raised his brow, "Now we can be friends again."

 

"Could I have my SIM card back, Frank?" Patrick tried, still playing as innocent as he could.

Frank clicked his tongue and blinked right back at him. "I sold it."

 

Patrick's face dropped.

 

Frank tutted and patted Patrick's cheek, voice going from somewhat believably comforting to downright mocking. "Aw, I'm  _ sorry _ . You should've been faster."

 

Patrick  _ really _ wanted to punch Frank in the face.

 

"Who did you sell it too?" Patrick said lowly, all semblance of friendliness dying at the news. Frank chuckled to himself as he shoved the money into his pocket. "Mikey."

 

Kicking him in the balls might be fun too.

 

Just then, a voice rang out from behind them both, coupled with the bathroom door swinging on its hinges.

 

"Hey, look at that: Return of the Rat. He's alive-"

Patrick couldn't stop himself from soldiering over and glaring at him. He probably should've been more careful, he should've planned this out, he should've been smart about it, but he couldn't take it anymore.

 

"Give me my fucking SIM card." Patrick growled, every inch of him burning with rage and hopelessness all at once.

Mikey raised an eyebrow, and the corners of his lips turned upwards. "Uh, let me think-  _ No _ ."

 

Patrick wanted to punch Mikey in the face.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pete stared out over the roofs of the prison buildings.

It was all corrugated, ridged iron and concrete, and in the distance, there was only barbed wire and the heads of lampposts. He was pretty sure there was a word for this kind of view: Depressing.

 

He exhaled and ducked his head, looking at his reddened set of knuckles and at the way his fingers trembled. It had been reckless, he shouldn't have done it…So why did it feel so good?

 

"Pete!"

 

Pete raised his head, his plans to smoke at least ten cigarettes until he calmed down flying out of the window.

Josh sped towards him, his rapid footsteps clanging loudly on the metal walkways. Pete looked back out at the roofs and closed his eyes, getting himself ready for an inevitable lecture.

 

"Ryan is the most dangerous person in this prison. Are you trying to get on his hit list, or something?" Josh exhaled sharply and Pete could hear him pacing around. "Pete- What the hell were you thinking?"

 

When Josh's footsteps finally came to a standstill, Pete pushed off the railing and turned towards the younger man. "I talked to Ray before he was murdered."

His nose wrinkled, his fingers curled, all with disgust at himself and anger at the obvious suspects. "I told him to forget about everything. I told him to carry on with his life, but they killed him." Pete exhaled sharply and decided to reach for his cigarettes anyway. "My advice is shitty, everything is-"

 

"Pete, it wasn't your fault."

 

"Oh- Josh, don't give me an 'it wasn't your fault' talk-" He shook his head and lit his cigarette, taking a long drag before he glanced away over the buildings again. "I don't know what would've happened if he'd confessed, but I told him to stay quiet and now he's dead."

 

Pete sniffed, suddenly registering that his cheeks felt wet and that his eyes stung.

He sighed and wiped his stealthy tears away on his sleeve, as Josh tried to speak again. His voice was a little hoarser this time.

 

"Why did he wipe the cameras?"

 

A knot settled in Pete's throat, but he ignored it and took another drag. "Because that motherfucker was threatening him."

Pete could feel his eyes prickling again, so he wiped his tears away once more, and took another drag- all his movements were erratic and violent. "Ray took six bullets in a parking lot, his kids aren't gonna have a father, his wife has had four fucking nervous breakdowns-"

 

"Pete, calm down-"

 

"I want to rip that fucker's head off-"

 

"SHUT UP." Josh yelled, his breath steaming in the air as he glared at Pete. "You're not ripping anyone's head off, alright?! You listening to me?"

Pete took another drag and looked away from Josh, hating how rational the man was and hating how irrational he himself was being.

 

"Because- best case scenario, you'll get fired-"

 

"I don't fucking care, Josh." Pete tossed his cigarette over the railing, shook his head, and walked away, leaving Josh behind him with one final hiss. "I don't care."

 


	5. Pray For The Wicked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, I know it's been a really long time; I went to a bunch of concerts last week and it's been hectic.  
> I hope this chapter is decent/this whole thing is still mildly interesting?? Anyways, thanks for reading!

"Well, you don't look like a multi-millionaire."

 

From where he lay in his bunk, Patrick weakly glanced over his shoulder.

He'd been sulking all day, he planned to  _ continue _ sulking all day so he didn't appreciate the interruption.

 

Andy had paced into the cell, his eyes were cast over at Patrick, and a mildly concerned look had taken root on his features.

Exhaling quietly, Patrick turned away from him and dropped a forearm over his eyes, vainly trying to block out the whole world. "You were right." He shook his aching head miserably, brow creasing at the dull pain that spread over his temples. "It's all over."

 

Last night had been long and quiet. The only sounds Patrick had been able to hear were breathing, crickets, distant footsteps, and the occasional birdsong- once the sun had began to rise.

And through all those dark hours (and until the sirens started squalling in the morning), all his anger had faded away and only sadness had been left in its wake.

He'd worked so hard to find that SIM card. That money- Gerard's money, would've been his golden ticket straight out of here.

 

And now, it was firmly back in Mikey's hands. Its ' _ rightful owner _ ', he supposed.

Hell, he wasn't even sure if Mikey knew what was on it; Gerard had been secretive about it, apparently. God, all that money- all that potential, going to waste because Mikey had a grudge.

 

Patrick sniffed sadly; his chest ached and his stomach swirled whenever he thought about it too hard. Right now, all he really wanted to do was lay in his bunk and hide from the world- and, cry for a few hours.

 

"What's over?" Andy's voice called out to him again, but Patrick only sighed and tucked his knees up to his chest. He wasn't feeling very happy to begin with, but reliving yesterday was only going to make him feel worse. "The SIM card-"

 

"Alright, listen up."

 

A voice rang out, and it was distinctly  _ not _ Andy's.

Patrick leant up on the mattress, crooked his neck, and squinted out at the cell doors.

 

An officer-  _ Josh _ if Patrick remembered rightly, stood there stiffly. And right behind him was  _ Joe _ .

"Joe Trohman's been assigned to this cell." The officer said, just as stiffly as he looked. He turned to the inmate behind him and motioned his head towards the room with a quiet: "Go on."

 

With a nod, Joe stepped inside and kept quiet as Josh lingered by the cell for a minute more.

 

Patrick stared up at Joe as he fixed up the bunk above him, visible confusion all over his face. Did prisoners just get transferred like that? It seemed so weird, so coincidental, so-

 

Convenient.

 

With a dull feeling of suspicion in his gut, Patrick swung his legs over the edge of his bed and watched Joe.

He was quieter than usual, his face was more impassive, but-

 

"Uh, are you okay?"

Patrick's head whipped around to the cell doors again, only to see the officer was still there.

 

Oh.

 

Right.

 

Joe's silence made sense now. The transfer still didn't, but he'd start the interrogation later.

 

Back at the cell doors, Josh was staring pointedly at the bandage around Patrick's head. The prisoner only blinked, not fully registering the question was for him for a moment, until Josh nodded and tried again.

 

"Your head, does it hurt?"

 

"Oh-" Patrick was quick to shake his head, but regretted it instantly when it jolted painfully. "O-Oh, yeah. Yeah, it's okay." He hissed, knowing full well his grimace shouted the opposite.

 

"What happened?" Josh pressed again, eyes narrowed into a barely noticeable, curious squint.

"There was an accident in the courtyard." Patrick shrugged softly. He was  _ not _ about to rat Mikey Way out to a prison guard; pretty much everyone in this fucking cell block already called him 'rat' way too often for his liking.

 

"Oh, right." Josh's brow dipped, and a slightly perturbed look crossed his face.

While he was no doubt wondering what ' _ an accident _ ' meant, he finally nodded between all three of them. "Well, stay out of trouble."

The three inmates nodded in varying degrees of enthusiasm, and the officer took his leave.

 

Once a little more silence had settled over the room, Patrick realized something: Joe had been moved to his cell.

 

Yeah- he had noticed that before, obviously, but now that he thought about it, this was a  _ good _ thing.

The two people actually somewhat liked him (or that, at least,  _ didn't _ want to punch him in the face) in the entire prison were his cellmates; that was the luckiest thing that had happened to him so far.

 

Despite his goal of trying to fall into a coma-like sleep, Patrick pushed himself out of his bunk and stood. He watched Joe as he tossed his books on the upper bunk's shelf. "How did you get moved here?"

Joe shrugged lightly, looking particularly neutral. "I dunno."

 

Patrick squinted.

 

"I'm gonna be honest: not entirely sure if I believe you."

 

Joe huffed bemusedly, the first bit of emotion Patrick had seen since he'd walked into this cell, and he turned to shrug at Patrick. "Go ask the Governor if it bothers you."

"It doesn't bother me-" Patrick said so quickly his tongue twisted. He didn't mind Joe was here, not at all- the more friends he had, the better.

Joe only chuckled quietly again, and Patrick finally shook his head, trying an apologetic smile at the other prisoner. "Anyway, good to have you here." His voice wasn't exactly confident, but regardless, he reached up and nudged at the taller man's shoulder.

Joe rolled his eyes, but the smile on his face was enough to make Patrick sigh in relief; He  _ hadn't _ completely ruined their friendship.

 

"Yeah, thanks for the warm welcome."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Excuse me, m'am. I wanted to talk to you about Pete."

 

Funny. Right now, Pete was last thing  _ she _ wanted to talk about.

 

She'd been on the very edge of suspending him, but she'd held back.

 

Even though Ryan would probably go making complaints with officials, even though he would complain endlessly about the 'abuse' and 'brutality' he'd suffered, everyone would just have to deal with it;

 

USP Colbert couldn't afford to start losing its officers.

 

And besides, the Governor was convinced Pete had to have been provoked. Pete wasn't a model employee, but she seriously doubted he'd just attack someone like that for nothing.

 

Explaining her decision to not immediately fire Pete had been hard. There had been questions, rants, and all kinds of accusations. She'd dispelled them all.

And today, she'd wanted to put all this behind her, and she'd been succeeding- until Josh wandered into her office with a worried look on his face.

 

To her chagrin, he seemed adamant on discussing Pete. So, resigning to her fate, she inhaled silently and raised her head toward the man in front of her. "What's wrong with Pete?"

 

Wasting no time, Josh paced up to the chair on the other side of the desk and took a seat. "He's really stressed." Josh began, eyes raising to the woman's nervously. "Look, Ray's death affected us all- But, Pete's taken it a little harder, I guess."

 

"He's  _ stressed _ ?" The Governor raised her eyebrows. "You do realize that about 90% of us are  _ stressed _ ." She couldn't keep the hiss out of her voice; Stress practically came with the job description.

 

"No- that's not what I meant." Josh hurried, a note of panic in his voice. "He's a good guy, but, he's just tense, and-" Josh cut himself off with a sigh and leant forwards, hands flat on the table as he looked up at his boss seriously.

 

"The Ryan Ross… _ situation _ \- that wasn't his fault."

 

Josh exhaled quietly, leant back in his chair and straightened his spine all at once. The Governor tried not to sigh; she was half-expecting, half-dreading what she was sure the young officer was about to ask her.

 

"I think we should transfer Ryan to another prison."

 

And there it was.

 

The Governor's eyes fell closed and she sighed deeply.

It wasn't an option. It just wasn't. Ryan wouldn't be moved again now, he was here for good- unless higher powers wanted him gone. That was just how it was. And they'd all have to live with it.

Pete, Josh- she, herself, and every other person in the building; they'd all have to look him in the eyes and pretend they didn't know what he'd done.

 

With one final shake of her head, she spoke as firmly as she could. "He's been through fourteen prisons. No one wants him. Only a judge can move him now."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The police station was familiar to Pete.

 

It reminded him of being a teenager. Of being interned overnight when he was so drunk he'd almost forget his own name: They'd drag him into the place in handcuffs, fresh out of some dive bar in Chicago.

They'd take his name- or, they'd try and make sense of his slurring until they figured out a name, and they'd lock him up in a tiny cell until his parents came looking for him the next morning.

 

There were also the times when he'd get into fights, and he'd stumble in, all bruised and battered…from that same dive bar in Chicago.

 

Of course, alcohol and adrenaline had made those memories fragmented and not completely  _ there _ . They were fuzzy, at best; he only really, clearly remembered the feeling of handcuffs around his wrists, and his parents yelling him out of a hangover in the car after they'd picked him up the next day.

 

But, no. Despite all his teenage misadventures, Pete remembered the police station most of all from working there himself. In the homicide division, to be exact.

 

It had never been his dream job, exactly; his dream job had been 'world famous soccer player' when he was a kid, then it had 'rockstar' for a few years, and then his nihilism had kicked in and his ambitions had abruptly switched to 'not having a job'.

His parents hadn't been pleased.

 

So, at their behest, he'd been put through college to find his 'vocation'. He did okay, he never got kicked out or anything, but he'd failed to find an ambition.

In the end, the parents made the choice for him.

And, his career choices had been 'lawyer' (they'd really insisted on that one) or 'Chicago PD'.

 

He'd picked the one that didn't sound  _ too _ soul-crushing.

 

But, if the police station was familiar, then the office he sat in right now was practically home.

It wasn't his- he'd never had an office of his own, instead, it belonged to Inspector Dupre, the only real 'mentor' he'd ever really had.

 

Under his leadership,  _ of sorts _ , Pete had actually enjoyed the homicide department, as morbid as it seemed. And since Chicago was pretty lively in said department, he'd always manage to shirk his share of paperwork.

 

Things had been good. Really good.

Dupre taught him more than he ever learned at school, there was always something to entertain himself with, and his bosses- all the way from the Superintendent to the Inspectors, treated him well. Pete had been finding meaning in his life, for once, and he woke up happy almost every day.

 

And then circumstances had changed. So he'd left.

Now he worked at a prison. And he didn't wake up happy anymore.

 

So now Pete sat in the old, familiar office. The spots where the chair creaked, the smell, and the scratches on the desk were all beaten into his head after years of sitting in that exact place.

It almost made him miserable, it made him want to beg for his job back- but he couldn't get distracted. That wasn't why he was here.

 

He was here for something much more important.

Pete squinted at Dupre, who had purposefully been pretending he didn't exist since he'd walked in, and cleared his throat.

 

The man's head stayed down.

 

Pete rolled his eyes and sighed out a firm string of words. "What's going on with the investigation?"

 

No answer.

 

Pete crossed his arms, shoulder blades flattening against the back of his chair. He'd always fucking hated the silent treatment. "I'd like an answer."

 

From where he sat at the cluttered desk, Dupre finally raised his head. He gave the younger man a once over, then, with a flash of his eyebrows, he ducked his head again.

 

Pete's eye twitched.

 

He had not come all this way- he had not sweet-talked his way into the homicide department, to be ignored like an annoying neighbour.

Pete sighed roughly and leant forwards in his chair, bracing his arms on the wood and on the piles of paperwork all over it. "How many more people have to die before you do something?"

 

When he finally spoke, Dupre kept his head bowed and his eyes on his work. "Get out of my office, knock on the door, come inside when I tell you to, and say 'Good morning' when you do."

 

Motherfucker.

This wasn't the time for pleasantries or games, so Pete stubbornly dug his heels into the floor, furrowed his brow and stayed put. Dupre had given him those orders before, and he'd never followed them back then either.

 

Leaning forwards again, Pete shoved a piece of paper over at Dupre stubbornly. "Write down the name 'Ryan Ross'." He implored, chasing the inspector's gaze. "He's directly responsible for the first murder, and he organised the second."

 

"Have you forgotten how the legal system works, Pete?" Dupre leant back in his chair and put his pen down neatly, before joining his hands and dropping them on the table. "We need proof to have a suspect. So, do you have any?"

 

"Yeah." Pete nodded sternly, "They broke into Ray's house, filmed his kids while they were sleeping, and used it to threaten him- Look on his phone, and you'll find it. How's that for proof?"

 

Dupre said nothing. He just stared at the younger man in silence.

 

With a quiet scoff, Pete shook his head and tried to stifle the small sense of panic flaring up inside him.

God, what if nobody believed him? He knew it was Ryan. He knew it. It was all so obvious, so  _ there _ .

"Someone is working for him." He implored the man again, "You have to believe me."

 

"Yes, we're aware." The inspector sighed, before moving over to the files beside him. He flipped through the one on the top of the pile, and quickly pulled out a piece of paper, before sliding it across the wood of the desk towards Pete.

 

"Brendon Boyd Urie. Interpol have issued a warrant for his arrest."

 

Pete raised an eyebrow, but took the picture anyway. He raked his gaze over it quickly.

It was a picture of a nerdy-looking kid, for want of a better word; Thick glasses, short hair, acne- all topped off with a goofy, bright grin.

It didn't look like a criminal. Not in a million years.

 

"That's the last picture we have of him." Dupre nodded at the picture as Pete set it back down. "That's his 11 th grade high school picture." The inspector was still staring at him blankly.

 

"Crimes in seven countries. Crimes in nineteen states. Thirteen violent crimes." Dupre kept listing, eyes still hard and trained on Pete.

 

Pete swallowed thickly and bit down on the inside of his lip. He hadn't considered this. He could've never imagined that Ryan would have someone like that on his side. Then again, that was one scary fucking power couple.

 

The inspector exhaled through his nostrils and back in his seat. "So, you, a prison guard, want to catch someone that's been eluding us for years?"

 

Pete exhaled sharply and glared upwards with eyes like splintered glass.

 

They might not have Brendon, but at the very least, they had Ryan. His accomplice- his goddamn husband. That had to mean something, that had to give them an advantage.

 

"You have a witness." Pete implored again, praying he could make the man understand where he stood. "Just ask the judge for a warrant and put  _ Patrick Stump _ under witness protection."

He made sure to stress Patrick's name; he was the only other person who'd seen Gerard leave that night, he was the only one who could testify against Ryan. He was the golden ticket.

 

Dupre looked him over again, eyes still as dull as they'd been through the whole meeting. He studied Pete in silence for a few moments, before he exhaled quietly and shook his head slowly.

 

"You've become a plain old civil servant, haven't you, Pete? Bitter to the core." Disappointment flooded his eyes, and the man shook his head. "Get out."

 

Pete opened his mouth to protest, but Dupre held a hand up.

God fucking damn it-

Pete jerked up from his seat and stormed away, making sure to slam the door when he heard Dupre mutter one last backhanded insult: "You had so much potential."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Alright, what card games do you know?"

 

Andy glanced between both men at the table as he opened the deck of cards; Apart from books, these things were the only form of entertainment available without having to leave the safety of their cell, and without accidentally running into Mikey Way. He was pretty sure Patrick couldn't handle that right now.

 

And since Patrick had been sulking and sniffling in his bunk all day (and since Andy couldn't take it anymore), he'd decided that what he needed was entertainment…and something to distract him from the fact that he'd lost 9 million dollars. And freedom.

He looked over at Patrick again; his shoulders were droopy, his eyes were dull, and his nose was red.

He shook his head; even though he'd advised against it, he felt sorry for the poor guy. Chasing that SIM card around somewhat like a headless chicken had been the only thing keeping him pushing forwards. But, he didn't have the motivation anymore, and in truth, Andy was a little worried about him.

 

Joe shrugged and leant back on the back legs of his chair. "Poker, Spider, Klondike, War, Chicago-" He shrugged, looking up at Andy with a raised brow. "Anything, pretty much."

Andy nodded and raised an eyebrow at Patrick, who looked like he'd just heard Joe speaking Mandarin. "What about you?"

 

With red, sore-looking eyes, Patrick blinked cluelessly and looked back at Andy guiltily.

 

"I know how to play Slapjack."

 

"For god's sake." Andy muttered under his breath, but he couldn't fight off a smile when he heard Joe splutter a laugh and a ' _ Jesus Christ _ '.

 

"Alright, fine. Slapjack it is." He shook his head as he split the shuffled deck of cards. 

Honestly. The things he had to deal with.

 

 

Things were quiet at first, just like they always were, but oddly enough, Patrick seemed to  _ really _ like Slapjack. The sad look in his eyes had melted away after a few minutes, and he was sat on the edge of his seat, watching the piles of cards intently and putting all his focus on the game. That didn't make him much for conversation, so Andy had turned to Joe.

 

Things were nice enough at first; they talked about they were from, where they'd gone to school, about their families and the occasional pet, but of course, eventually, the conversation went where it always went.

 

"How long do you have left?"

 

Prison. What they'd done, and how long they had to stay for it. As if they didn't talk about it enough already.

 

"I mean, I have 17 months left." Joe nodded, a tiny, hopeful smile on his face for a second. "But I have a pending trial, so…might be longer." Joe added with a shrug, putting another black card down before glancing back up at the other man. "You?"

 

"Indefinite." Andy replied blankly, throwing yet another card down. Three of diamonds.

He was also going to avoid the 'Why are you here?' conversation if he could; Manslaughter wasn't fun to admit to. Or explain.

 

Patrick, who was intensely watching the pile of cards, didn't answer.

Andy glanced up at Joe, nodding towards the shorter man and huffed the answer for him. "Seven. He has seven years left."

 

Joe nodded slowly and cocked his head at Patrick again, staring at him for a long moment.

When Patrick didn't even flinch or notice, Joe huffed bemusedly and turned back to Andy. Craning his neck, he lowered his voice and raised an eyebrow. "Why was he so messed up this morning?"

 

Andy's eyes shifted back to Patrick. Then back to Joe.

 

Huh. Okay.

 

He wasn't sure how secretive he was supposed to be about the whole SIM card situation; he wasn't sure if Patrick trusted Joe, or if it was even Andy's place to-

 

Joe clicked his tongue and shrugged slowly, "I know the phone was a little compli-"

 

"The phone?" Andy's head jerked back towards Joe. "You know about the phone?"

Joe nodded quickly, a broad smile spreading over his face. "He showed it to me- Did you know he stole it? That's fuckin' ballsy. Especially for him."

Andy had to agree; he would've never expected Patrick to do something like steal from a guard.

 

Still, just because Joe knew about the phone, it didn't mean he knew about the card. Andy gulped quietly and cocked his head at Joe, "Do you know about the… _ thing _ ?" He knew it was vague. It was too goddamn vague, and Joe's furrowed brow was just what he'd been expecting.

 

"What thing?"

 

"The  _ thing _ …?" Andy tried again weakly, but Joe only shrugged and gaped at him like a fish on land. "I don't- What kind of 'thing' are we talking about?" Joe's face plastered in confusion, and Andy felt like the biggest idiot in the room.

He bit down on the inside of his cheek, and raked his eyes over Joe once more.

The guy was good. Andy could tell. He had a knack for this sort of thing- and Joe just had that trustworthy look in his eyes…Right?

 

"The SIM card. Do you know about the SIM card?" He tried again, but Joe only blinked and shrugged again. "What-"

 

"A SIM card that might tell me where 9 million dollars are, but now Mikey has it and my life is fucking over." Patrick deadpanned, tossing a four of clubs down onto the pile, and leaving both men speechless for a good minute.

 

"Oh, so you  _ are _ listening." Andy tutted after a few moments, but Joe only gaped at Patrick and struggled out a breathless question. "A-Are you serious?"

When both Patrick and Andy nodded, Joe's confusion intensified. He looked between both men with a look of bewilderment in his eyes. "Holy shit, this is huge-"

 

Patrick snorted. "But I lost it, so-"

 

"Everyone's been looking for it since Gerard  _ arrived _ \- they went crazy for it when he died." He shook his head, and nudged Patrick on the shoulder loosely. "And you found it on your first week in here? Are you half bloodhound or something?"

 

"Mikey has it. I lost it." Patrick clarified yet again, motioning firmly with his hands.

Andy could see how much it still hurt him- the lump in his throat was practically visible, and even though he'd tried to stop Patrick, even though he'd be safer for it, he knew that that SIM card had meant a lot to the other man.

 

Joe turned back to Andy after Patrick turned his attention back to the cards. "Dude, this is huge. This is seriously huge- he could get out of here. He could actually pay his bail and just-"

"I know, but he lost it to Mikey." Andy sighed, a small feeling of pity prickling over his neck. "And, besides-"

 

"Snap!" There was a slam on the table as Patrick dropped his hand on the cards, fingers caging over the first Jack that had been dropped on the pile.

Andy and Joe glanced at each other, each with a raised brow and a bemused look on their face.

 

With a shake of his head, Andy let out a long breath and gathered the cards up again, quickly shuffling them with a sigh. "Oh screw this, I'm gonna teach you poker. I can't play Slapjack for the rest of my life."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Josh watched Pete as,  _ subtly _ , as he could.

After the incident, he couldn't help but see the man in a new light. When he got angry, things could get ugly; it was good to know, if a little worrying.

 

That being said, Josh had struggled with Pete that morning.

 

Pete hadn't been angry or anything. No, it had actually been the disturbing opposite.

He'd been  _ quiet _ , and weirdly so.

 

Every try Josh made at small talk was brushed off with a disinterested hum or nod. Even asking him about the weather got him no answer; Pete was too busy staring off into space instead, eyes dull and spark-less like he was burnt out and exhausted and drained all at once.

 

It worried Josh. It worried him a lot.

Even now, as they stood in the almost empty staff room- save for them and Walker, leaning on the counters beside the noisy coffee maker, Pete was silent.

There was no complaining, no joke, and even no subtle insults thrown Walker's way- Josh was half way to just giving up, so he'd decided to resort to babbling about his day, whether Pete was listening or not.

 

"-It's so dumb, seriously. And, besides, a bunch of them get hurt all the time anyway, like, I saw a guy with a splint this morning. And uh- Patrick? That guy in block 2, 225?" Josh saw Pete's head bob upwards from the corner of his eye. "Got his head split open."

 

Once again, Pete stiffened for a moment, shoulders tensing along with his jaw as he dropped a few sugar cubes into his cup. "Which Patrick?"

 

So Pete  _ hadn't _ spontaneously gone mute, he'd just been acting like a teenage girl for no fucking reason.

 

"Stump."

Pete's eyes shifted towards him again, and Josh idly wondered if he'd found a point of interest for the other officer.

Alright then, Patrick. He'd make Patrick the topic of the conversation, and maybe- just maybe, Pete would spit out more than two words in succession at some point.

 

"You can tell he's not really like the others, though." Josh shrugged lightly, and to his surprise/immense sense of victory, Pete took another sip of the sickeningly sweet coffee and spoke again. "What d'you mean?"

 

Josh shrugged again with a little less conviction, and looked down at his own mug.

Even though he'd only just broken through, he considered changing the subject again. He'd probably lose Pete to silence again, but he didn't want him to give him a lecture for being 'naive'.

 

Then again, could he really deal with Pete saying next to nothing all day?

 

With a shake of his head, Josh decided that no, no he couldn't. In the end, he only shrugged and prepared himself for a scoff or a mocking laugh. "I think he's innocent."

 

But, to his surprise, Pete didn't scoff or laugh. He only took a sip from his mug, eyes narrowed and looking pensive, so Josh opted to push just a little more. "I just mean he's not really the type to break the law, y'know?"

 

It was even bigger surprise when Pete finally mumbled his short, quiet answer. "I know."

 

Josh could hardly believe his ears. He'd been so sure that he'd just get a dismissive noise, or a three minute long rant about how being naive was a terrible thing.

"Just have to trust people sometimes, y'know?" Josh shrugged, his eyes settled on Pete as he opened his mouth to answer, when-

 

"Trust. Yeah, right."

 

There was a scoff from the other side of the room. From Walker.

Josh saw Pete roll his eyes, but he kept silent anyway.

 

Walker moved towards them with purpose in his stride. He slid his empty cup onto the table and raised his brow at Josh seriously. "If you ever trust those people- like, even for a second, you'll regret it. They'll stab you in the back."

 

"Shut up, man." Pete cut in, face contorting in a dulled kind of irritation.

"Right, right- I forgot, trusting people is important." Walker huffed and held up his hands, as he drew back with a few steps. "Speaking of trust, where's your  _ phone _ , Pete?"

 

At that, Pete couldn't seem to find an answer. And all the other officers could do was watch as Walker disappeared through the staff room door with the click of a handle.

 

The moment Walker disappeared, Josh turned to Pete. "What's he talking about?"

The man looked stiff and his eyes were wide as he stared down at his mug blankly. Josh nudged him in the ribs with his elbow, and it was only then that Pete pushed off the counter slowly.

 

Sluggishly, he turned, emptied the half-full mug into the sink, and dropped it carelessly with a loud clang.

He didn't spare Josh a glance as he pushed his hands into his pockets, furrowed his brow, and soldiered out of the room. "I have things to do."

 

Josh could only stare after him. He furrowed his brow and drained his own coffee mug- he wasn't thirsty anymore.

He'd get to the bottom of this. There was something wrong with Pete, and he was gonna figure out what it was.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"If you have any issues, just let me know, okay?"

 

Patrick nodded quickly, trying a small smile at Pete- who stood behind him as they waited by the visitor room's doors.

Patrick was exhausted. Sure, he'd spent most of the morning wallowing in his own misery, but after the card games had started, things had taken a turn.

 

Poker, played with spare buttons instead of money, had been confusing- there was no other word for it. And his headache hadn't helped either, but thankfully, Joe and Andy seemed to have taken pity on him; they might've let him win a few rounds.

 

Once they'd finished their games, Patrick  _ had planned _ to go straight back to sleep- but then he'd been called to the visitor's room.

 

Apparently, his dad had 'important things' to discuss with him- and he was bringing company. But honestly, Patrick was too drained for any of it; there was no significant way he could help anymore, all that was left to do was beg a judge to lower his bail.

There'd be no multi-millions, no brilliant escape- he'd have to wait it out for a few more years, at least.

 

With one last glance back over his shoulder, Patrick sighed to himself and slumped forwards, heading through the door and bracing himself for what was about to come.

 

He scanned the room with a quick sweep of his eyes.

It was packed, practically every table was packed with prisoners and visitors, but in the far corner, he made out the top of his dad's head- and those of the people with him.

 

His brother and sister were there. Both sat on their dad's right hand side, and they were glancing around the room almost  _ wildly _ . Everything about them looked nervous, and almost  _ twitchy _ .

 

Kevin, his brother, sat up straight in his chair with his hands folded in his lap.

He looked uncomfortable but was obviously trying to hide it; but even then, Kevin had always been a better liar than Patrick was.

Megan however wasn't making an effort to hide how unhappy she was about this. Her shoulders were slumped, her knuckles were white and her head was buried in her hands.

 

Patrick couldn't help feeling a little guilty as he walked towards them, quietly ducking past tables and weaving around people until he reached the far end of the room.

 

As soon as they saw him, all three rose to their feet quickly.

Kevin, who was closest, stared at him with wide eyes, full of pure disbelief. Patrick didn't blame him one bit.

When he remembered himself, Kevin shook his head and stepped forwards, wrapping Patrick in a firm hug and letting him go just as quickly.

 

Megan edged up towards him next. She didn't look shocked, so much as disappointed and  _ worried _ . She hugged Patrick so tightly that he felt guilt twist in his chest again, but tried his best to ignore it until a guard stepped towards them and ordered them apart.

 

They retook their seats swiftly, and Patrick leant back in his seat and raised his brow at his dad expectantly, waiting to be told the reason he'd been dragged away from his self-pity session.

 

"I got you a new lawyer, Patrick. He specialises in these types of cases." Patrick wondered how fucking expensive that must've been; as if he needed any more of a guilty conscience. His dad leant forwards, "He's going to try to reduce your bail by a third, but they need more details."

 

Patrick tried not to groan; details had slowly become his least favourite thing over this entire ordeal.

 

"You need to write down everything you remember-"

 

Trying to block the words out, Patrick looked up towards his brother.

He looked blank, completely and utterly blank with only a shred of disbelief on his face.

 

Patrick really wondered if Kevin was  _ that _ horrified by him. He couldn't ignore the hurt feeling that crept through him, and he really hoped that wasn't the case. He hoped the prison, the guards, the bandages- anything but Patrick  _ himself _ was making Kevin nervous.

 

"-Anything that could help in your defence-"

 

He tried his sister- but she only had that same horrified, worried glint in her eyes that their mom had had. It hurt even more.

 

"-We'll have to prove Elisa was lying-" His dad's voice droned back into his ears, and Patrick opted to listen to him, rather than endure his brother and sister's faces. "Emails, texts, receipts, tickets- anything that could prove you were together."

 

Patrick nodded quickly, but almost winced at the dull ache that spread through his skull. He felt a worried look from his family, but was determined to play it off with a clear of his throat.

 

"That's all they said, but-" His dad raised an eyebrow, "If you have any questions, I can pass them on."

"No." Patrick shook his head- softly this time, to avoid any more damage to his head.

 

There were a few moments of silence, but Kevin, for one, had never had much patience.

He leant forwards not long after, eyes glued to the bruise around Patrick's eye and cheekbone. "Patrick, what happened to your face?" Kevin's eyes scanned over him again and again, as if it would fade away at any minute.

 

Patrick wasn't about to explain the entire ordeal, so instead, he lifted his shoulders and sighed out. "I got hit."

 

Kevin's face paled and he looked visibly taken aback, but he said nothing more and nodded once.

Patrick glanced back towards his dad, a lingering question on his mind. "Dad, where did you get the money to pay for that lawyer?"

His father fell silent for a moment, and it was only when he leant back, paused, and tilted his head, that he finally answered. "Your mother and I have decided to remortgage the house- and, your brother and sister have some savings. They've offered to help."

 

Embarrassment, shame, and pity hit Patrick full force, all at once. He dropped his head, barely able to look his family members in the eyes anymore.

He weakly moved a hand forwards and gaped, his fingertips dug into the freezing metal. "I'm so, so, so sor-"

 

"Don't worry about that, son." His dad leant forwards again, an eager look flooding his eyes again. "Did you find what we talked about last time?"

 

Shit.

 

Patrick bit down on the inside of his cheek, shame crawled over his skin like leprosy, fiery guilt re-fanned in the pit of his stomach. "It didn't work out, dad." He said quietly, but his dad only raised his brow. "No? Are you giving up then?"

 

Patrick blinked in confusion.

Well, yeah, that's what he'd assumed he'd have to do.

Giving up was his only option now; he wasn't big, he wasn't strong, he wasn't a fighter- he just couldn't go up to Mikey and  _ demand _ his property back.

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Give me my SIM card, you fucking piece of shit."

 

This was totally against Patrick's better judgement.

 

He wasn't playing to his strengths at all- no, this was a stupid, ridiculous, and plain dumb idea that would probably get him maimed and/or murdered.

 

And yet, there he was. A mouse trying to be a lion,  _ he _ was trying to threaten  _ Mikey _ .

 

If it was any consolation to himself, he blamed his dad. The 'don't give up' speech he'd poured out for a good twenty minutes had made Patrick feel invincible for a few minutes as he'd made the walk to find Mikey.

 

But, now that he stood toe-to-toe with him, in a deserted bathroom, with nobody around, and with sharp insults pouring out of his mouth, he didn't feel invincible anymore.

 

Still, he kept glaring up at Mikey- who only stared back blankly.

Patrick wasn't sure what to brace himself for; a punch, a kick, a headbutt- he wasn't looking forwards to any of them, but he was pretty sure they were on the way.

 

With a steady inhale, Patrick did his best to hold his nerve and speak again. "Give. It-"

 

Mikey struck like a cobra. He jerked a hand out and grabbed Patrick by the neck, and before he could even register what had happened, he was in a stall, pressed against the wall, and Mikey's fist was hammering into his nose.

 

The smell of iron flooding his nostrils, Patrick yelped and stumbled, but Mikey's free hand shot out to cover his mouth.

He tried a muffled plea for mercy, his hands awkwardly trying to cradle his beaten nose past Mikey's hand, but the taller man ignored it and right hooked him square in the chest instead.

 

Patrick spluttered and Mikey's hand dropped from his face. His legs gave below him and all his focus shifted from his aching nose, to his chest.

It was agony; his collarbone ached, his face felt numb, and he could hardly see past his prickling eyes.

Patrick wheezed and his hands scrabbled over his chest, he could hardly breathe- let alone speak.

 

The faint sound of a lock clicking echoed through the stall, barely audible past his breathing and groaning, and a second later, a hand was hooking into the fabric of his shirt.

Mikey dragged him up to stand again, and the second he was back on solid ground- Mikey hit him again.

The sound of his knuckles cracking against Patrick's ribs was sickening and deafening all at once, and all Patrick could do was gasp desperately.

He vainly tried to shield them with his arms, but it didn't stop Mikey, and his fist kept coming, mashing into his ribs again and again and again.

 

Patrick felt like his breathing was going to stop, his ears buzzed and whined, and he hardly had any time to recover before Mikey turned him, and shoved him face first into the wall.

 

Patrick whimpered as he heard what sounded like bones crunch, and in a daze, he wondered which part of him had made that noise.

 

He distantly felt one of Mikey's hands twist into his hair, but when Mikey yanked his head back, his nerves came alive and he made a noise like a wounded animal. Every inch of his scalp was burning, when Mikey locked his arm around his neck, and tightened it.

 

Fuck.

 

"Ple- N-  _ Don't _ -" Patrick wheezed with a broken voice as his fingers leapt up to the arm. His blunt nails were useless, they couldn't break the skin no matter how deeply he dug them in. All Patrick could do was scratch until red lines blossomed over the pale skin, but it was still useless; Mikey didn't even seem to notice.

 

Through aching vocal chords and a lack of air, Patrick finally managed to stutter a string of words out. "I-I know h- _ how _ to- to- save  _ R _ -Ryan."

 

Mikey said nothing, and only tightened his vice-like grip on Patrick's throat.

 

He wheezed desperately, and a sudden sense of panic hit him like a truck. He could die right now.

 

Mikey could keep tightening until his breathing stopped, until his face went blue and he died gasping for air.

If he didn't get out of this, he was going to die here. He was going to die in prison. That was  _ too _ fucking depressing-

His family- he didn't even want to picture his mom's face, and Elisa…she was pregnant. She was pregnant with his kid, shit- No. No, Patrick needed to live.

 

With gritted teeth and a few deep gasps for air, Patrick tried again.

He couldn't fight, but he could talk himself out this.

 

If Mikey let him, for like, three seconds.

 

"I can- he- w-won't- charged with m-murder-" Patrick gasped again, his limbs stiffening and trying to thrash all at once as his vision darkened. Not like this. He could not die like this-

 

"H-He'll ge- hun- hundr- y-years if you d-d-" Patrick gritted out again, small whimpers and wheezing moans puncturing through his words. His vision was getting worse, it was being filled out by tiny black spots, and the fragile bones in his neck were trembling-

 

Then, it all stopped.

 

All the pressure lifted, and Patrick felt numb all over. For a split second, he was sure he had died.

 

And then he started coughing.

Patrick slumped to the floor and coughed and panted and moaned until his lungs boiled. He lay there in a crumpled heap, desperately trying to draw his knees up to his chest as he shielded his face with his arms.

He'd been so close to dying, he could feel it. From every shred of pain in his system to the desperate way his lungs demanded oxygen, Patrick knew Mikey had been seconds away from killing him right then and there.

 

And along with all the aches and pains, Patrick was  _ scared _ .

Mikey could've killed him. Mikey could try and kill him again.

Knees against his chest and boiling tears streaming from his eyes, Patrick's hands moved from his throat, to his chest, to his ribs, to his nose- all desperate, all uncoordinated as he tried to piece together what had just happened.

But no matter how much he replayed it in his head, he couldn't understand how quickly it had all happened, he couldn't understand how he'd ended up here.

 

After a few minutes of heavy breathing, Patrick pressed one hand against the tiles and pushed himself up with gritted teeth. It  _ hurt _ , it was agony. Everything hurt  _ so fucking bad _ -

 

"Start talking, Stump."

 

Patrick tried.

But, all his abused throat could muster was a high wheezing noise, before a fit of coughing wracked him again. Everything from his jaw to the bottom of his spine thundered painfully, but as he heard Mikey scoff from above him, he came to a horrifying realization:

 

It wasn't over.

 

Of course if fucking wasn't; this was just the goddamn intermission.

 

He felt a hand on the scruff of the neck pull him to his feet, and slam him against the wall.

For fuck's sake.

Trying to spare his nose anymore damage, Patrick turned his head when he hit the wall- only to cry out when his bruised cheekbone crushed against it instead.

 

Hands firm and bruising around the back of his throat and his wrists, Mikey pressed up behind him. "Good. That's really great for Ryan."

 

Patrick tried to stutter out again, but Mikey only tightened his hands and lowered his head to his ear. "Thing is- you're going to do something for me too."

 

Mikey dropped his hands, but just as Patrick tried to make a break for the stall door- Mikey stamped down on the back of Patrick's knee, sending him back to his knees in one swift move.

"Oh no- you're not leaving yet. This is the most fun I've had in a while."

Patrick pressed his face against the door and braced his hands on the floor, he tried his best not to make a sound when Mikey pulled him back up to his feet.

 

He was going to take his beating like a man, and then, he was gonna stay in his cell for the remainder of the seven years he had to serve in here.

That sounded like a good plan.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Ryan Ross."

The inspector paced about the room, his hands folded behind his back. The Governor sat at the corner of the room, watching the proceedings with crossed legs and crossed arms. Both sets of eyes were on the prisoner slumped in the chair in front of them.

 

Ryan looked dead-eyed as he stared into the camera that angled towards him, its red, blinking light monotonous and steady; the only predictable thing in the entire room, in the entire situation.

 

"You're about to be questioned regarding the murder of Gerard Arthur Way." Inspector Dupre continued, his back straight as an arrow and his voice loud as he kept pacing relentlessly.

 

"You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to a lawyer. Everything you say will be recorded to protect your legal rights."

 

Ryan glanced upwards and directly at the inspector, face void of an expression. "Why am I being questioned?"

Dupre stopped with a thud of his soles on the floor, and turned towards Ryan. "On the basis of a witness statement." The inspector couldn't help a smug smile as he nodded deeply once more. "A  _ reliable _ witness statement."

 

 

 

 

 

"I didn't see anything."

 

Patrick said curtly, doing his best to ignore the horrified look on the Governor and Inspector's faces.

"I was in bed." He shrugged casually, turning his attention to the camera instead. "I heard some stuff, but- really they just talked for a little while."

 

Inspector Dupre swallowed thickly, his lip was twitching into a scowl as he spoke and his voice was tight as he did. "And what were they talking about?"

 

Patrick shrugged, trying not to wince at the ache in his shoulder blades. "Dunno." He cocked his head back up at the camera, "They were gonna go smoke, or something."

 

Dupre exhaled sharply, and resumed his pacing- that had stopped the second Patrick had started his confession. His shoulders were bunched up, and his brow was lowered deeply as he threw a glance Patrick's way. "Did you recognize the voice that spoke?"

 

Once again, Patrick shook his head- as slowly as he could; his meeting with Mikey in the bathroom had done nothing to help his headache. "It was my first night here. I didn't know anyone."

 

 

 

 

 

"Can I smoke?"

 

"No." Dupre barked, lip curled at Ryan- who in turn, only stared up at the man nonchalantly. With a long suffering sigh, Ryan fell back in his seat and threw his hands up weakly. "Why would I kill Gerard? We were friends."

 

"Gerard and his brother stole eleven million dollars from an armored vehicle."

Dupre squinted at the inmate, taking an accusing step forwards. "As he fled the scene, he spread two million across the road. He buried the rest. Doesn't that seem like a good motive? Nine million dollars?"

 

Ryan cocked his head like a puppy.

"Well, that's the official story." He bit down on his lip and shook his head in faux concentration. "Gerard told me a different one."

 

"What did he tell you?" The inspector crossed his arms, but the inmate didn't seem phased.

Instead, Ryan's smiled broadened into a grin.

 

"Can I smoke?"

 

Dupre glanced back at the Governor, who sat in her chair with a perturbed look on her face. Wordlessly, he asked her permission with a look, and when she nodded, he stepped towards his jacket that had been abandoned on the desk.

Fishing his own pack of cigarettes from the pocket, Dupre tossed them over to the inmate, trying to ignore the smug look in Ryan's eyes as he passed the lighter over.

 

With a nod of thanks, Ryan lit a cigarette in a practised move and instantly took a long drag. When he finally exhaled, he raised his brow at the inspector again. "He told me something really interesting."

He took yet another painfully long drag, relishing in the irritation the inspector glared at him with. The corner's of Ryan's mouth quirked upwards, and he finally shrugged, giving Dupre the anticlimactic news. "They dumped all the money on the road. Burying would just be stupid."

 

"Only 2 million dollars were recovered-"

 

"Ah, right." Ryan nodded deeply as the inspector cut in. He took a short drag and chuckled to himself, "Sorry, those  _ officers _ said they only found  _ 2 _ million."

With a bemused huff, Ryan edged forwards in his chair and flashed his eyebrows. "Right now, those cops are probably living it up in the Caribbean. You know that right?"

 

Dupre stiffened all over. No, that couldn't be it. That was- It just wasn't-

He couldn't accept that. He couldn't bring himself to accept that a couple of cops had ran off with 9 million dollars-

 

"It's kinda funny, right?"

 

Shaken from his thoughts, the inspector furrowed his brow down at the inmate. "What's funny?"

"A couple of police officers in the Caribbean." Ryan shrugged lazily, the smile on his face just as sluggish. "Like, lying in hammocks, drinking cheap beer all day, sunburnt 'til they're red as lobsters." He wrinkled his nose up at the inspector. "Pretty funny, right?"

 

 

 

 

 

"Did you recognise Ryan Ross asking Gerard to go to the bathroom?"

 

Patrick shook his head gently, lowering his head and looking away from the pained, desperate gazes. A part of him felt ashamed.

He'd offered to testify, and now, he was just stabbing them in the back. But- Patrick had to do this. It was the only way Mikey would've given back his SIM card, it was the only way he wouldn't have beat him to death in that bathroom stall.

 

"They were whispering, and I was under the covers." Patrick said with a soft nod, a small spike of pain spreading through him from his neck.

He kept his head down as he listened to the inspector mutter to himself, he sounded exasperated and exhausted, and his pacing had become brutal as it echoed around the room.

 

A few moments of silence followed, and just as Patrick had been hoping he'd be excused, the sound of heels clacking on the floor violently made his head jerk upwards.

 

The Governor was stalking towards him, eyes fiery and every inch of her curling with rage. She gripped both arm rests and lowered her eyes to his, her mouth twisted into a snarl when she growled. " _ You _ told me that Ryan took Gerard to the bathroom. Why are you changing your statement?"

Patrick shook his head, stubbornly looking away and down at the floor. "I'm not changing it."

"YES. YOU ARE." She yelled, her voice cracking with more desperation than anger now. With a shaky sigh, she pulled back and stood, burying her face in her hands for a moment.

The Governor looked down at him again, "What did they do to you? Did they threaten you-" Her eyes narrowed at the red patches that littered what was visible of Patrick's skin. "Are those new?"

 

Patrick kept his head down, and lowered it even further when she crouched again. "Patrick, did they beat you? Patrick- you need to tell me, we need this testimony-"

 

With a final sharp exhale, Patrick raised his head and looked the woman dead in the eye, speaking slowly and clearly. "I don't know what you mean."

He raised his head, brow furrowed and eyes stern as he tried to copy what his dad always looked like when he spoke seriously. He hoped he could channel the same amount of firmness, even if he did look a little more pathetic.

 

Patrick shrugged at Dupre when the inspector turned back towards him, he scowled when he spoke. "Can I go now?"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The SIM card felt like a hot coal in the palm of his hand.

 

But despite the weight of the small plastic card in his hand, Patrick rushed back to his cell as quickly as his legs would carry him.

And, when he crashed past the bars and stumbled inside, his heart leapt thankfully when he saw it was empty.

 

He shot towards his bunk, crawling under the covers and hiding himself away, before tugging Pete's phone out of his pocket. He switched the SIM card with some urgency, but still urged himself to stay calm; he couldn't afford to be clumsy right now.

 

When the phone started whining, he shoved it under his pillow and scrunched his eyes closed, listening to the muffled droning sound, and waiting for it to stop.

 

Patrick hoped there was something good on this phone, because if all this was just a red herring and this SIM card was just packed with cat pictures, he was legitimately going to lose his mind.

He'd been through so much shit, he'd taken beatings, humiliations, insults- all for this fucking moment, and-

 

The phone was silent from beneath the pillow.

With a soft exhale, Patrick tugged the mobile out from under it and squinted blearily at the bright screen, trying not to hiss at the light that burned through his retinas.

There was a whole new screen, a default wallpaper, an incorrect time and date- worst of all, there was  _ keypad _ .

 

Patrick rolled his eyes and tried not to sob.

No- No, he'd come this far, he was not gonna let a flimsy four digit passcode stop him.

 

Hoping Gerard had been an extremely obvious human being- or that he'd been in a bit of a hurry when he was setting this up, Patrick half-heartedly tried '1234'.

And he couldn't even bring himself to be too surprised when the words 'Incorrect PIN' flashed across the screen.

 

Patrick buried his face in the pillow.

Fuck.

Numbers- he needed numbers. He didn't know Gerard's birthday- he didn't even know how old he'd been. Shit, but, wasn't his birthday too obvious? Maybe it was Mikey's birthday- but, then again, Patrick somehow doubted it.

It had to be something else, something more subtle, but at the same time, something Gerard would've never forgotten. Something permanent, something he could remind himself of every day, like a lucky number or something.

 

Patrick's brow furrowed. A lucky number.

He paused, his mouth fell open slowly as one, single picture flooded his mind.

 

The tattoo.

 

The black number on Gerard's wrist- the number in the wall of his solitary cell.

 

8.

 

Patrick burst into action. He grabbed his phone and hammered the numbers in with shaky fingers. '8888'. That had to be it, that had to be-

 

The phone unlocked, and Patrick felt like he was about to cry.

 

His head fell into the pillow and he let out a long breath, really  _ feeling _ just how much every inch of him ached for the first time that day. He could still feel the imprints of Mikey's knuckles, where the bones had hammered into him like a meat tenderizer.

 

But, it had been worth it. He'd done it. He'd actually done it.

A tiny smile quirked at the corner's of his mouth, and his eyes felt damp when he finally squinted back over at the phone.

 

With a quick exhale, Patrick set to work.

He poured through everything he could, checking call history, conversations- he even vainly tried checking the internet history, but no matter how hard he searched, there was nothing.

But just as Patrick's heart started sinking, he opened the camera and checked for pictures.

 

He froze as he stared at the image on screen.

 

It looked like the woods. The trees were tall and dense, the grass was wild and prickly-looking plants were littering the ground. A few rocks were also scattered about the place, but the biggest thing and by far most striking thing in the picture was a boulder.

It was almost perfectly round, and only a few edges were jagged and covered in light moss.

 

Patrick checked the other pictures, but there were only three others, and all showed him what seemed to be the same forest; each one had something unusual in it, however.

One showed a sandy path that was interrupted by a jagged, sharp rock right in the center. Another was framed by a tree, where the initials 'F' and 'L' had been caged by a heart and carved into the bark.

The last one was of a signpost. It was metal, a little rusted, but it read 'Breton Forest' in bold white letters.

 

It seemed like someone had taken the four pictures to remind themselves of this place…As if they had something to find there.

 

Nodding to himself quickly, Patrick closed the pictures and went to make a call instead. He needed to let his dad know as soon as possible, they had a chance now- Fuck, he might be able to get out of here.

 

"Patrick?" His dad's voice rang out from the other end of the call, and Patrick couldn't help sighing sadly. Hearing his dad's voice was comforting, especially after the ordeal he'd been put through today.

"Dad." Patrick gulped deeply, his mouth suddenly felt a lot drier than usual.

 

Once his dad got involved- once his family were involved, there was no going back. He knew his dad would chase this until Patrick was home and free; if Patrick was relentless, then his dad was even more so.

But, no- he needed the help; Besides, it would be fine, his dad was capable when it came to things like this. He just hoped they could deal with this quickly, and that they could put this stage of life behind them.

 

"I found the SIM card." Patrick sighed tiredly, his eyelids drooping as he let his limbs drop. "There are pictures of a forest on it- It's Breton forest."

 

"Send them to me." His dad commanded, obviously not keen on wasting any time. "And destroy that SIM card."

Patrick nodded sluggishly, trying not to groan. Sure, he'd destroy the SIM card eventually, but for now, he needed like three days of laying in bed to recover from the beating Mikey gave him.

 

"Be careful, son." His dad said after an exhale, and Patrick could only chuckle sadly. If only he could see him right now; the bruises all over him didn't exactly scream 'careful'.

Still, Patrick didn't want to worry his dad any more than was necessary, and besides, the sooner he hung up, the sooner Patrick could afford himself a few hours of sleep. In the end, he resigned himself to a simple: "I will."

 

And he hoped he'd gotten better at lying.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Kevin was buying a shovel.

 

He wasn't sure  _ why _ he was buying a shovel, but as if he was a little kid, his dad had sent him out to Home Depot with thirty dollars and a simple order:

 

_ 'Buy a shovel.' _

 

Now, Kevin didn't usually like being ordered around, but his dad had seemed so desperate and serious that he hadn't dared argue.

In truth, his dad had been on edge since Patrick had been imprisoned, and getting his brother out of prison was top on his dad's priority list, understandably.

 

Still though, _to Kevin_ , it was the most surreal thing he'd ever experienced.

 

His little brother, in a high security  _ prison _ . It just didn’t make sense; his grumpy little brother surrounded by murderers and kidnappers- it was just nonsensical.

 

When he'd actually seen Patrick in there, for the first time, dressed like an inmate, covered in bandages and sporting a black eye- God, if Kevin hadn't been paying attention, he might not have even recognized him.

Well, the sooner Patrick was back home- the better.

 

Kevin paced towards his car, the newly bought shovel in his hand and his car keys in the other. He let out a soft exhale, glancing around the parking lot and idly noticing how empty it was; He supposed not many people wondered into a hardware store at noon, but the lack of cars was a little jarring.

 

Whatever. The sooner he got this thing back to his dad, the better.

Kevin opened the boot of his car and tossed the shovel inside, wincing slightly at the loud clang it gave.

He moved to shut the trunk, but just as he was reaching up-

 

Something blunt crashed into the side of his head.

 

Kevin yelped, but he barely had any time to figure what had happened out before he was being shoved into the boot of the car.

He barely stuttered out the first syllable of ' _ No _ ', before a fist crashed between his ribs and he wheezed, all protests dying in his throat.

Kevin panted and folded in two, weakly hitting a fist against the door of the trunk as it slammed shut, and left him in the dark.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

As evidenced by the bandage around his wrist, that he'd gotten from attempting press-ups, sports and anything related to them was not Patrick's strong suit.

 

And yet there he was, doing sit-ups in the yard.

 

He could've been sleeping. He could've been recovering, but  _ no _ .

 

Oversleeping was the first sign of depression, and depression was bad, so an officer had pretty much dragged him out of bed and out to the yard instead, in order to 'get some sunshine'.

 

"What are you doing, exactly?" Joe and Andy watched him from the bleachers, faces contorted in confusion as they watched the shorter man.

"Sit-ups." Patrick panted out as his chin reached his knees again, and he muttered a breathless: " _ 54 _ ."

 

"Are…Are you training for the Olympics or something?"

 

"I'm- trying to- tire-"

 

"Trying to tire yourself out?" Andy finished swiftly, and Patrick could only nod and grunt at the migraine in his temples.

 

"Gerard's money keeping you awake?" Andy asked again, a faint disapproval lining his words.

With a loud exhale, Patrick fell back on the ground and let his arms drop, his face scrunching up at the dull ache on the back of his skull. "I have bigger problems."

 

"Like, Ryan wanting you dead?"

 

Patrick sighed and nodded. "That's a pretty big problem, but it's not…"

With a final pant, Patrick pressed his hands down onto the hot concrete and pushed himself up to his feet, all with his lungs burning for oxygen.

He sighed heavily again and braced his hands on his knees, squinting up at Joe and Andy despite the sunlight. "Elisa's pregnant. She's pregnant, and-"

 

"Who's Elisa?" Joe whispered to Andy- who only shrugged cluelessly in response.

Patrick rolled his eyes weakly and paced towards them, "She's my girlfr- Well,  _ ex-girlfriend _ , I guess." He crashed down on the bench beside them, leaning back on his hands with a slow sigh.

 

"And, it's yours?" Joe piped up again.

"Pretty sure." Patrick nodded tiredly, "I tried to- I just tried to forget about it, but- now everything's fixed, my dad has the pictures- I mean, I'm gonna be out soon."

 

Despite themselves, Andy and Joe huffed dubiously and glanced at each other with tiny shakes of their heads. Patrick could only glare at them weakly.

 

"Well, point is- it's my kid, and…I don't what I'm gonna do." He sighed deeply again, "I mean, she put me in here, maybe she won't even let me see-"

 

"Blondie, I need to talk to you."

 

Their heads snapped to the side, only to see Ryan waltzing up to them nonchalantly.

The man raised an eyebrow at Joe and Andy, and shook his head. "See you later."

 

Not wanting to argue, Joe and Andy moved to shuffle away from the bleachers, but not before Joe whispered a final: "Good luck."

Patrick stared after them, watching as they took to leaning against the metal fences and talking to each other, with the occasional glances back at Patrick and Ryan.

 

"You're a very rich man." Ryan began, obviously not interested in wasting time. He slid up onto the bleachers next to Patrick and raised an eyebrow. "9 million dollars. Quite a fortune."

 

Patrick was quick to shake his head; if there was someone he did  _ not _ want sniffing around this money, it was Ryan. "I'm not rich."

Staring at him for a moment, Ryan chuckled softly and hooked an arm around Patrick's shoulder. He leaned towards his ear, "Let's be honest here: your bail is a million dollars."

Patrick swallowed deeply and glanced to the side. "So?"

 

"You keep 1 million, I keep 8."

 

When Patrick said nothing, Ryan nudged Patrick in the shoulder. "And I'll even sweeten the deal. You'll be protected for as long as you're in here."

He poked at Patrick's bandages, "So that means no more of these." Then, he poked at Patrick's bruises. "And no more of those."

 

"Everyone inside in 5 minutes!"

 

Patrick's head snapped over to the officer that yelled out the order. Perfect timing, perfect excuse.

With a brief glance towards him, Patrick slid off the bleachers and carefully rolled Ryan's arm off his shoulders.

 

He followed the other few clumps of prisoners as they moved towards the gates, all readying themselves to be shepherded back inside.

 

Ryan called out after him, his voice high and almost  _ amused _ . "Don't have to walk around looking like a Dalmatian anymore, Patrick! Think it over."

 

Patrick kept moving forwards, he didn't give him the satisfaction of looking back.

When he finally joined the rapidly forming queue of prisoners, Joe and Andy were quick to flank him again, both full of questions and confusion- but Patrick brushed them all off.

 

Patrick looked out over the courtyard, squinting between the last few standing who hadn't moved towards the line again.

And in the few that remained, Patrick noticed Frank.

 

He stood in a corner, up against the metal tall fence, and he was quietly talking with three other prisoners. The more Patrick watched, the more he realized what was going on.

The other inmates were handing bundles of what looked like paper over to Frank- who was quickly hiding them away in his pockets.

 

"Why are they giving Frank money?" Patrick nodded over at the man, who having swiftly pocketed the cash, was finally pacing towards the queue with his head down.

"Conjugal visit, I guess." Joe shrugged, but Patrick only shook his head in confusion and turned. "And?"

Joe shrugged once more, "Well, like, after conjugal visits, the guards don't really want to search you too much. You know?"

Patrick wrinkled his nose.

 

"Ew."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ryan scanned the room, before quickly dialing the familiar, worn-out number.

 

He waited, listening to the ring while his eyes darted around the room.

He really hated how secretive all of this had to be; What he wouldn't give to just be able to talk to Brendon face to face again.

No, he just needed to be patient. He could be out of here soon; Patrick, as pathetic as he was, had surpassed his expectations and tracked down Gerard's money. Bullying him out of it wouldn't be too hard- and even if Patrick  _ did _ put up a fight, that would just make it all that much more rewarding.

 

"Hey, Ry."

Brendon's voice cut through his thoughts like a guillotine, and Ryan's head instantly snapped upwards at the sound. "Brendon?"

He tried another glance around the room. "How'd it go?"

 

There was a pause, but before long, Brendon was sighing into the phone and saying exactly what he wanted to hear. "It's okay. He's in the boot of the car."

 

With a slow exhale, Ryan smiled softly. "Good." He glanced over his shoulder again, paranoia creeping into him slowly with each passing minute; all it took was one stray prisoner, one stray guard and-

Ryan scrunched his eyes closed and muttered into the phone again. This was more important at the moment, and besides, Ryan had circled this place ten times before he'd even attempted the phone call. "Has he told you where the money is?"

 

"I'm taking him to the woods." Brendon huffed, Ryan could see his proud smile in his head. "If he knows anything, I'll find out. If he doesn't…" He could see Brendon's shrug. "I'll deal with it."

 

"No!" Ryan snapped, "He isn't worth anything dead- Look, escaping is expensive. We need the money."

 

There was a pause, and Ryan felt his heart flutter nervously in his chest.

He couldn't afford to lose Brendon, he sometimes worried about pushing him too far, but-

 

"Ryan, this is risky for me, alright?"

 

Ryan's eyes scrunched closed again. Shit.

With a slow sigh, he tried a smile he hoped Brendon would somehow notice. "Don't you think I'd do it myself if I could?"

 

There was a quiet chuckle on the other end. "I know you would, Ry."

It wasn't long before another sigh interrupted them, however. "But I just- If something goes wrong, I'm fucked. I'd see you in there in a couple of months." Brendon mumbled on the other end of the line, "Maybe you should just sit it out in there. Or, we might never see each other again."

 

Ryan froze, his blood ran cold.

Stay in here…? That was Brendon's idea?  _ That _ was what he expected Ryan to do?

His hands felt shaky, but he wasn't sure if it was fear, or sadness, or frustration, or anger. It all swirled around inside him like an untameable storm.

 

But despite all that, despite how much he wanted to snap and yell at Brendon, despite how much he wanted to  _ demand _ a rescue mission-

 

Ryan smiled.

 

"You're right." Ryan nodded softly, keeping his voice low and quiet. "I'll behave. Just gotta sit tight a little while longer, right?"

 

"Right." Brendon echoed, and Ryan had to curl his free hand into a pale fist.

With a last sigh, Ryan forced his grin to broaden. "This is the last thing I'll ask you to do, then. I swear. You can just lay low after this."

 

"Thank you." Brendon said quietly, his voice sounded heavy with something Ryan couldn’t quite pinpoint over the phone.

"Love you." Ryan added almost hastily, but his stomach dropped when Brendon only exhaled, and said one word.

 

"Bye."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was dark, it was so fucking dark.

Kevin's chest ached, right along the gap between his ribs. Shit, maybe one was broken, or, at least, cracked.

 

Kevin had been locked in the boot of his car for what felt like hours, but it had only taken thirty minutes before he'd really begun to panic.

 

This was a kidnapping, it had to be.

It sure as hell wasn't a prank; his friends would never do something this fucked up, and his family would never even consider it.

 

But, then again, who would want to kidnap him? He was a nobody- he was an accountant for fuck's sake, not an international spy. Or- Oh shit, maybe this was a serial killer; Oh fuck, Kevin could not fucking deal with that, he could not handle being tortured to death or something.

 

Still, whoever it had been, serial killer or otherwise, had done a damn good job. Kevin hadn't even seen the person's face, and it was only now that he could hear their voice.

 

All noise had been drowned out by the car engine for the longest time, but now, they seemed to be stationary. Kevin had pressed his ear to the door, and he'd strained his ears to hear a man's voice in what he assumed was a phone call.

 

So, that gave him one shred of information: His kidnapper was a man.

 

And since about 50% of the world's population were men, that wasn't exactly helpful.

Something that was handy though, was the silence.

 

Kevin could actually hear his own thoughts now, he could hatch some kind of plan- if his adrenaline-riddled head would let him.

"Calm down- just breathe." Kevin coached himself and took deep, laboured breaths. His hands curled around the shovel beside him, and at the cold wood beneath his fingers, something clicked.

 

He had a shovel.

 

The kidnapper did  _ not _ have a shovel.

 

And yeah, while shovels weren't exactly deadly weapons, it was better than nothing.

…There was also the possibility that the guy outside had a gun, but maybe if Kevin was quick enough, he might just be able to get away.

 

With a sharp exhale, Kevin nodded to himself sternly and forced his hands to steady themselves. He glared up at the boot door and gripped the shovel tightly, aiming the metal head forwards.

 

Going through the motions in his head, Kevin planned every movement out.

The moment the trunk started opening, he'd stab forwards and hit the man in the stomach- then, he'd run.

That was pretty much it. But as long as it ended in him escaping, he considered it a good plan.

 

Kevin strained his ears at the silence for the longest time. He kept his eyes open and staring into the darkness, all while his ears pricked and his muscles tensed- every inch of him ready for that car boot to open.

He tried to picture the man, tried to imagine the way he'd fall when Kevin hit him with the shovel…but when the sound of footsteps started getting closer, Kevin could only hear his own pulse thundering in his ears.

Okay, okay- this was it, he had to be quick, like a snake or something. He couldn't second-guess himself, he had to be sure and confident-

 

The trunk lock clicked open.

 

He could do this.

 

Slowly, the boot door raised up, but despite his urge to follow it up and see the face of his captor, Kevin acted.

The moment the man's torso was in view, Kevin lurched forwards and slammed the sharper end of the shovel into it.

 

"FUCK-" The man fell back into the dirt, and Kevin took his chance.

He leapt out of the boot, his cramped legs a little shaky as he stumbled to his feet. He looked around wildly, squinting at his surroundings and trying to work out where they were.

 

There were piles of rusty cars everywhere, and there were huge metal skips full of busted computers, radios and TVs. The scrapyard; he used to come out here with his friends when he was young-

 

He was on the outskirts of town, but he knew the way home like the back of his hand.

 

Suddenly remembering the guy who had gotten him into this situation, Kevin glanced back at the man and raked his eyes over him. He tried his best to remember his face; Kevin was going straight to the police after this and he needed to give an accurate picture. Dark hair, big eyes, around average height-

The man had started struggling to his feet, panting out words through pained hisses and breaths.

"Shit." Kevin gasped, stumbling back again. He edged away from the car and watching the man like a feral animal as he struggled to his knees with a hand on his ribs.

 

And the moment he planted a firm foot on the ground, Kevin panicked.

 

Every rational thought disappearing from his head, he threw the shovel down, and ran as fast as his legs would carry him.

His chest still hurt, he could hear the man yelling behind him, the dry dirt under his soles burst out behind him in clouds, and all he could see in front of him were the rusty gates of the scrapyard.

This had been the most unpredictable, most unconventional, and just plain horrifying day in his life so far.

In the end, Kevin just kept moving until he couldn't hear the man's voice anymore, and the only thing he knew for certain, was that he'd never run that fast in his life.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Kevin Stump?" David asked the woman behind the counter quickly, his hands shaky from nothing but nerves.

 

All he could think about was the phone call from Kevin- and just how  _ scared _ his eldest son had sounded.

Needless to say, he'd jumped into the car and raced down to the police station before Kevin had even hung up.

 

"He's over there." The receptionist nodded towards a row of chairs at the other end of the waiting room.

Kevin was slumped over in one, still dressed in his suit from work- although, his blazer was missing, he was disheveled, and he was covered in dirt. His face was buried in his hands, his hair was a bird's nest, and his shoulders shook with every breath he took.

 

David moved towards him as quickly as he could.

 

Obviously still jumpy at the footsteps, Kevin's head jerked up from his grimy palms.

But, the moment he laid eyes on David, he jumped to his feet and hugged his dad as tightly as he humanly could.

"Dad." He whined, and all David could do was bite his tongue and place a hand on the back of his head in an attempt to calm him down.

 

When Kevin finally pried away from him, David placed his hands on his son's shoulders and looked at him seriously. "What happened, Kevin? Are you okay?"

 

"I got kidnapped." The words tumbled out of his son's mouth.

Kevin was trembling, his hands shook violently and his voice quivered as he recounted it all. "There was a man, he- he shoved me in the boot of my own car."

 

Noting how much Kevin's knees were shaking, David led his son towards the seats again and sat him down.

Kevin continued his terrified babbling however, his head was shaking quickly and there was a wild look in his eye.

"Dad, I work at a bank. I'm an accountant- I just-" He looked up at his dad desperately, "People like me don't get kidnapped."

 

Slowly, David dragged a hand over his face.

Fuck. He couldn't have known Kevin would be dragged into this too. But if his suspicions were correct, this meant someone knew what they were doing. Someone was watching them.

 

"It's my fault, son." David said a moment later, squeezing Kevin's shoulder, and hoping it was somewhat comforting even though his words were not. "It's my fault you got kidnapped."

 

Kevin's lip trembled, a heartbreaking look of heartbreak crossing his watery eyes, but he only shook his head again. "I-I don't understand-"

 

"Listen, son." David glanced over his shoulder for a moment, checking nobody was too close for comfort.

He looked back at Kevin, leaning forwards and lowering his voice in an effort to keep the words strictly between them. "Your brother found something that could lead us to 9 million dollars. We could pay his bail."

 

Kevin blinked in confusion, his face was still blanked out by it, so David tried to explain as best he could. "He sent me pictures of the place where it's probably buried."

 

Suddenly, it seemed to click in his son's head, and his mouth parted as he inhaled deeply. "That's why we needed the spade."

David nodded, carefully watching his son for a few more moments and judging how he was taking the news. He'd stopped shaking so much, his breathing was regular…he was taking it well.

 

"The problem is that there's another inmate that's also after the money." David continued slowly. He didn't want to overload Kevin, but he'd been kidnapped, and he deserved to know why.

"His name is Ryan Ross, and, the man who kidnapped you must've been his accomplice." David finished, still watching his son's expression as it slowly contorted into disbelief melded with horror.

 

Kevin's eyes were teary and his mouth was gaping as he shook his head. "This is insane, Dad." He shook his head again, a more desperate cadence to his words this time.

 

"Let's just report everything to the police."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Patrick was preparing himself.

Seeing Doctor Reynolds every day wasn't fun, it went without saying. And even though Patrick had won a little time from him, the man was still expecting something at some point, and Patrick was dreading that day.

 

With a final exhale, Patrick pushed through the office door and plastered a polite smile onto his face. "Evening, doctor."

 

The doctor looked up from his work, and the moment his eyes fell on Patrick, he swallowed deeply- eyes frozen on the patches of bruises all over the young man. "Ah, Patrick. Good to see you."

Patrick bit down on the inside of his cheek, but forced a smile anyway as he pushed the door shut behind him.

He took a seat on the chair opposite Reynolds, taking a little comfort in the desk separating them.

  
  


"Those look serious, Patrick." Reynolds hummed as he nodded towards Patrick's injuries. "Have you been getting trouble again?"

Patrick chuckled nervously and shook his head, "No, it was just a…misunderstanding." Understatement of the fucking century. And Reynolds seemed to know it.

 

He huffed bemusedly, but regardless, he nodded over at the examination table. Patrick held back a sigh, tried a smile, and obliged before the doctor even said a word.

 

"Shirt off, Patrick. I'm assuming those bruises aren't limited to your face." Reynolds called out behind him, and Patrick had to swallow back a scoff.

 

God fucking damn it- he obliged, like he always did. He tugged his shirt off and took a seat on the edge of the examination table, keeping his feet on the ground and his hands flat.

 

Just in case he had to make a break for it.

 

"Let's see the damage then." Reynolds skulked towards him, coming to an abrupt stop when they were inches apart. The lump in Patrick's throat swelled up three times its size when Reynolds insisted on poking and prodding at his face.

 

"That looks fractured-" Reynolds muttered, eyes flashing down to the patches over Patrick's barely visible ribs. His gaze jumped back up to Patrick's nose, "Hm, might be dislocated-"

 

Patrick grimaced; he didn't appreciated the use of the words 'fractured' and 'dislocated' (aka 'broken') when it came to his body parts.

 

"Is there anything else?" The doctor asked smoothly, eyes still scanning over the masses of purple and red marks.

"It's just from the uh- the wais- the ribs up. Really." Patrick stuttered, shirking back under the man's stare; The more he thought about it, the further the guy stayed away from his waist, the better- ribs and up was acceptable, anything else not so much.

 

"Well, I'm not sure what I'll be able to do."

 

The doctor drew backwards, hands dropping away as he moved back towards his desk.

Patrick blinked oddly. That was weird.

Right about now, Reynolds would usually by funneling painkillers and bandages his way. Instead, the doctor had sat back down in his chair, and had taken to staring at Patrick in silence.

 

"Uh, well- I…" Patrick wasn't sure what to say, but when in doubt, he always just tried the truth. That tactic had worked like, four times before in his life.

"It really hurts." Patrick chuckled weakly, "So, could you, like-"

 

"Well, frankly, Patrick-" Reynolds sighed, head lolling to the side, and eyes raking over Patrick again. "I don't see why I should help you."

 

Uh. Because he was a doctor? It was his job?

Didn't doctors have to swear an oath for this kind of shit? What was wrong with this guy?

 

Spotting the visible confusion on Patrick's face, the doctor chuckled softly and lean back in his leather chair. "Do you remember our meeting a little while ago? The one where you asked me for more  _ time _ ?"

 

Well shit.

 

Patrick felt a lump in his throat, and he couldn't help the way his eyes leapt to the door desperately. He'd make a run for it if he had to.

 

The doctor noticed, but only shrugged. "I think I've been patient for long enough." He braced one forearm on the desk and stood, moving over to the office door and turning his back to Patrick. "I honestly think your time has run out."

 

The lock clicked. Patrick heard it loud and clear.

 

In dead silence, Reynolds moved over to the examination table and tugged the plastic-like pillow from it.

Then, in that same wordless, soundless way, he sat back down in his desk chair, leant back, and dropped the pillow on the floor between his legs.

 

"We don't want your knees to get too damaged, do we?" Reynolds sighed, a small smile quirking at the corners of his mouth.

 

Every inch of Patrick went cold.

He was frozen, but the second the doctor's hands moved to the fly of his slacks, Patrick ducked his head away and stared at the floor instead.

 

Fuck this.

 

Fuck this guy, fuck this entire situation- he was not lowering himself to  _ that _ .

 

"I have a right to medical care." Patrick glared at the tiles. He couldn't look up at Reynolds, he was completely sure he'd throw up if he did; he could taste acid on his tongue already.

 

When the doctor said nothing, and when the sounds of a belt undoing kept flooding his ears, Patrick shook his head and snapped again. "I'm gonna report you. I'm gonna report you to the Governor."

 

The sounds stopped for a moment. A second later, they came again- only quickly, frantic, and coupled with rueful mutters. "Alright- _ bastard _ \- fucking te-"

 

"Right- Remember when I told you I could help you? Get you anything you needed? Fill out reports for you?"

Reynolds snarled, his facade of politeness was completely vanished and all Patrick could do was listen to his tantrum with his head bowed.

"Well, I only help people who behave, goddamn- so you can forget about medical care, drugs, reports- Oh, and your Xanax? That's gone."

 

Patrick tried not to protest. He bit the inside of his cheek and blocked it out as best he could.

When Reynolds finally quietened down, Patrick found enough resolve to pull his shirt back on, get off the table, and soldier towards the door. But before he'd even reached the halfway mark, Reynolds called out from behind him again.

 

"Patrick."

 

Patrick wasn't sure why, he turned to face him. He should've just unlocked the door and rushed outside, he should've ignored him.

Reynolds smiled at him ruefully, eyes glinting with a sick amount of smugness.

 

"Sleep well."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Mr Stump?"

 

David's head jerked up at the police officer's voice, "Yes?"

The bright eyed officer nodded quickly. "The inspector will take your statement in five minutes, is that okay?" David firmly, and smiled a wordless thank you.

As soon as the cop was gone, David glanced towards his son and put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it briefly. "I'll be right back, son. I need some air."

 

With a few sluggish nods, Kevin smoothed a hand over his face and barely registered where his dad went.

He fell back in his seat and sighed deeply, the palm over his eyes blocking out the light of the police station. Despite it meaning they'd have to stay here for a few hours, Kevin was relieved his dad had agreed to tell the police about the money, about the kidnapper, about Patrick's situation.

 

They would help. That's what the police did.

 

Suddenly, a ringing phone dragged Kevin out of his thoughts.

His hand slid from his face, and he glanced around for the sound.

It was coming from his dad's jacket that had been left on his chair. Without much hesitation, Kevin reached into the pocket and took the phone, preparing a little speech about how his dad wasn't there but he could take a message.

He answered the call and put it to his ear. "Hello?"

 

"Dad, listen-"

 

Patrick.

 

Kevin's eyes widened, and he was quick to clarify things to his little brother. "Uh- Patrick, it's Kevin. Dad just went out for some air." He hadn't really spoken to Patrick at length since this whole misadventure had started, so, clearing his throat, Kevin decided to seize the moment. "How are you?"

The question was tame, bland- and kinda stupid when directed at someone locked up in a prison cell. Patrick's answer was anything but tame, bland, or predictable.

 

"I can't sleep."

 

"… _Right_." Kevin said slowly. 

He cleared his throat again, and tried to think up some solid, brotherly advice. "Patrick, you guys have medical services over there, right? Why don't you talk to them? They could help you."

There was a long silence.

 

"Kevin, the doctor wanted a blowjob in exchange for Xanax."

 

What the fuck?

Kevin's nose wrinkled, his face contorting into disgust. " _ What _ ?"

"He put a pillow on the floor and everything." Patrick only sighed on the other end of the phone; his little brother sounded exhausted and drained, his voice was monotone and he sounded half-asleep.

It was nothing like Kevin remembered it.

 

A dull feeling of shock coursing through him, Kevin shook his head quickly. "Patrick, you have to report that."

Patrick scoffed; he sounded so cynical, Kevin was getting concerned. "No, Kevin, no-"

Putting on his big brother voice, Kevin pressed him, raising his eyebrows and crossing his free arm. "Listen to me- you have to report it."

 

"No, Kevin!"

 

Patrick ended the exchange there, his voice was quiet and tired when he finally spoke again. "It doesn't work like that here. If I report him, he'll get me. I don't know how, but he will."

Patrick sniffed on the other end of the phone, and Kevin felt his heart clench.

All he could picture was his brother in one of those prison uniforms, locked behind bars, surrounded by the scum of the earth, and just plain  _ afraid _ .

 

"Kevin, it's horrible." Patrick's voice finally broke. It cracked and quivered, and Kevin felt more desperate to get him out of there with every syllable. "They spit at me, they harass me, they beat me- I'm not going to survive seven years of this. I-I'm gonna die.  _ They're gonna kill me _ ."

 

"Patrick. Listen to me." Kevin said sternly, all of his own terror fading away in seconds at the first sign of his brother's. "Remember when we were kids? And, we went camping that one time?"

"And it rained all weekend?" Patrick sniffled, and Kevin could only nod and chuckle, whispering a small 'yeah' back to him.

"Well, some kids started calling you names, and throwing rocks and sticks at you. D'you remember what I said?" Kevin could still see it in his head; he, Megan, and Patrick had all been so young, but he could still remember the smell of the river, the sound of the rocks the other kids threw, he still the scraped knees Patrick had at the end of it all.

 

"'If you mess with one of us, you mess with all of us'." Patrick chuckled sadly on the other end of the line, and Kevin could just  _ picture _ his sad smile.

"I stand by that." He nodded, a twitchy, broad smile spreading over his face. The fear was rising through his chest again, but he couldn't hide from this. Not now.

 

Patrick was not going to serve 7 years in USP Colbert. He'd see to that.

 

"I'll get you out of there, little brother." Kevin nodded confidently, but he wasn't sure who he was trying to convince anymore. "Me and dad. We'll get you out of there."

 

There were a few moments of silence, but they were quickly punctured when Patrick sniffled on the line again. "Thanks for standing up for me, that time we went camping."

 

"Anytime, Pat."

 

"I hate that nickname."

 

"I know."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

David paced back into the room. He'd rehearsed it all in his head.

 

He was going to try and convince Kevin one last time, he would give it one more shot. He'd implore him, he'd explain that this was the only quick way to get Patrick out of prison- and hopefully, his son would listen.

 

If not, then they'd have to file a report.

God, David prayed it wouldn't come to that; the police would be useless in this situation, he just knew it. They'd leave Patrick to rot, they didn't care about  _ him _ .

In the end, if it  _ did _ come to a report, David was going to be as vague as possible. He wanted to keep the cops out of-

  
  


"Dad."

Kevin stood beside the chairs, with David's phone in his hands. He nodded down at the device, "Patrick called you."

 

David held back a sigh; shit, he should've been here, he couldn't believe he'd missed the call- what if it had been important?

Determined to keep his composure, however, David raised his brow. "Is he okay?"

 

"Yeah." Kevin said quickly, head bowing for a minute.

His son's shoulders were tensed up, his knuckles were pale, and his mouth was set in a straight line. David wondered what was going through his head, but he didn't have to wonder for long.

 

Kevin looked up at his dad, a flawlessly confident smile replacing all the fear on his face. "But we have work to do."

He took a step forwards, and handed the phone back to his dad with a swift, firm move, and a smile on his face.

 

"We'll have to buy another shovel."

 

David froze.

 

He stared at his son; Broad smile, raised chin, that fighting spark in his eyes.

It was moments like these, that he knew he and Patricia had done a good job with raising their children.

 

But despite how proud he was, David had to make sure Kevin understood. This wasn't going to be easy, there was going to be danger, and there was probably going to be more of Ryan's accomplice along the road.

 

He wasn't sure how to explain it all, he wasn't sure how to make Kevin understand the gravity of it all. So, with a firm look on his face, David placed a hand on Kevin's shoulder and stared him dead in the eye. "Are you sure?"

 

Kevin only nodded towards the door, his smile didn’t falter for a moment. "Let's go."

 

 


	6. Nervous Wreck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope this is decent, it took forever- I've said it before, but sorry for the wait !

"Patrick- geez, will you stop fidgeting?" Andy dropped his hands from the staples that held the bandage around Patrick's ribs together. He gave Patrick a disapproving look, but the other man only whined petulantly and stuck out his bottom lip. "It _hurts_."

"Yes, that's because your ribs are probably fucked." Joe huffed from Patrick's right hand side, his voice dropping a little. "No wonder it hurts."

 

Patrick sighed and tried not to think about his 'fucked' ribs. He stubbornly ducked his head and clamped his eyelids shut when Andy got back to fussing over the staples.

 

He thought back to last night; his eyes still ached from the sheer amount of time he'd spent crying.

Doctor Reynolds had refused to help him, so Patrick had shambled back to his cell, on the verge of a breakdown, and not to mention- completely broken in every way he could imagine.

 

He'd stumbled over to his bunk, he'd curled up in his covers and he'd resigned himself to letting things heal _naturally_ …as shitty and painful as that would be.

 

But it hadn't been long before the others had noticed.

 

Frank hadn't said anything, he'd just watched the whole affair from his bunk with an intrigued look on his face. But Joe and Andy had jumped into action at a moment's notice.

 

Patrick had been pulled out of bed and made to sit, while the two talked so quickly Patrick's frazzled head could hardly understand them.

They'd darted from place to place, out of the cell, to the bunk, to the table- and before Patrick knew it, new bandages were being wound around his abdomen, wrists, neck- just about anywhere that looked a little redder than usual.

Eventually, Patrick had given up in trying to ask questions or bat them away, and he'd been far too tired to even attempt a protest.

 

He wasn't sure how many hours they'd sat there; Patrick's eyes had been half-closed the entire time. Eventually, once Patrick was more bandages than skin, the two let him sleep.

And although he was exhausted, wrecked, and had a thousand questions (notably, _where_ they'd found so many medical supplies), Patrick mustered a raspy 'thank you'. His only answer was a soft pat on his head.

 

Patrick didn't know how he'd ever repay them.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pete slumped back in his chair, his eyes still glued on the screen in front of him.

The footage wasn't particularly interesting, but Pete's curiosity had been peaked by what Walker had said.

 

He could still remember the slight huff he gave when he spat the words: ' _Speaking of trust, where's your phone, Pete?'_

 

And as much as Pete scowled at the memory, it had stayed in his mind, niggling away every time he went to reach for his phone- only to find an empty pocket.

He'd tried phoning it so many times already, but, apart from the first two times, he never got an answer anymore. So Pete got to thinking.

 

The last time he'd used his phone felt like ages ago, he'd been relying on payphones since then. But, it hadn't taken him long to retrace the days until he realized when it had vanished.

And when he thought about everything that had happened around that week or so, most of it had been repetitive but one thing had stuck out to him.

 

Patrick.

Patrick had hugged him, he'd been babbling about being 'sorry' and Pete had awkwardly suggested therapy. Although unexpected, it seemed so…normal then. And as much as Pete hated doubting him and pinning the blame with so little evidence, there weren't many other explanations. As Pete replayed the blurry memory in his head again and again, something felt _off_.

 

So, call it a hunch, but that morning, Pete decided that the best course of action was to watch the security tapes from that week.

He'd waded through hours of footage, hundreds of cameras, and finally- he'd been faced with the hallway just outside the sick bay, and he'd been watching that hallways sped up footage for what felt like days.

 

Everything looked white and sterile on the screen, medical, rules and safety posters with tiny writing were pasted on the wall, and there was hardly any movement as the timestamp rushed along in the corner of the screen. While the footage was a little grainy, Pete had quickly gotten used to it after a few hours.

 

And after a few more, a sign of life crossed the screen.

With a sharp inhale, Pete jumped and set the footage back to normal speed.

On the screen, Pete saw himself stop in the hallway, brow furrowed and mouth moving like he was calling out to someone.

 

One eyebrow quirking up, Pete sat up in his chair and leant forwards, bracing his forearms on the coffee-cup infested table as he watched.

 

Slowly, none other than Patrick paced into the shot.

He was fidgeting with the bandage around one of his wrists; Pete was sure he was still wearing the same one.

He watched as Patrick suddenly burst into action, taking quick strides towards Pete, looping his arms around his shoulders, and dropping his face into the crook of his neck.

 

Pete bit down on the inside of his cheek, matching the way it played out in his memories to the video.

He remembered the way Patrick's incessant mumbling had rumbled against his neck, he remembered his warm arms gripping him tightly, he remembered just how shaky the smaller man's frame was…but what he hadn't remembered, was Patrick's hand in his pocket.

 

What the fuck.

 

Pete's jaw hung open as he watched Patrick on the screen, he could hardly believe what he was seeing.

His bandaged hand was buried in his pocket, and a few seconds later, he dragged Pete's phone out. A second later, he jumped back, hands joined behind his back, fingers gripping the phone, and a shaky smile painting his face.

 

As they both drifted out of screen again, Pete fell back in his chair.

 

He couldn't understand it.

He couldn't understand how Patrick- god, _Patrick_ of all people, had stolen from him.

And, shit, had Pete really been too distracted to notice the fingers rooting against his leg? He should've noticed, he doubted Patrick had much experience in pickpocketing- so, how had Pete missed it?

 

There was a well of everything ranging from guilt, to betrayal, to anger in the pit of his stomach. This was what he got for trying to help? For giving an ounce of trust to a prisoner? God, he felt like an idiot.

 

"Fuck." Pete sighed under his breath, his shoulders feeling as heavy as steel.

Patrick had stolen his phone, he'd actually stolen his phone. And most annoyingly, in the end, Walker had been right; Pete shouldn't have trusted the inmates. He shouldn't have trusted Patrick.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Checking his blood pressure was one of the most tedious things David had ever had to do. But then again, he supposed it was necessary. That hadn't stopped him complaining and rolling his eyes when his doctor had ordered him to make a routine of it.

 

David hissed as the cuff tightened around his arm, but he dropped his eyes to the screen anyway, watching it flash with quickly changing numbers. When they came to a stop, his brow furrowed: 140. That was too high for his liking, but it was expected; The numbers had been skyrocketing since the…situation with Patrick.

 

The thing was, David wasn't sure how he was supposed to _stop_ worrying. Everyone, from Patricia to his doctor, urged him to put it out of his mind, but he couldn't. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw that yellow uniform, Patrick's inmate number, and bruises.

Besides, every time he visited USP Colbert, his youngest looked more beaten, more hurt, and more dead behind the eyes. If there was something wrong, David had a right to be worried.

 

He didn't want to lose Patrick to that prison. David had seen enough cases just like Patrick over the years; good people changed and morphed into distorted versions of what they were before by the system. They became so used to their cages and guards, that they just couldn't go back to normal when they finally released.

Patrick- just like the hundred others David had seen, just wasn't made for prison. And David would do anything to make sure his son wouldn't be another disaster story, when he was let out.

 

Lost in thought, David got to packing away the blood pressure monitor back into its box. Just as he was curving the tube to fit around the blocky screen, a soft voice jolted him out of his thoughts.

 

"Where have you been?"

 

David didn't even have to turn around to know it was Patricia.

She sounded worried, and almost timid- as though she was bracing herself for a horrid answer.

 

"I went out." He answered curtly, guilt stinging the pit of his stomach as he kept his eyes down towards the monitor.

 

"What are you hiding?" She chimed again, her light footsteps pacing forwards as she came to stand behind him.

 

He sighed and shrugged at the monitor's box as he closed the lid, "I was taking my blood pressure." Glancing up just in time, David watched his wife's face twist with concern. His throat tightened. "I didn't worry you."

 

Patricia just stared down at the box in silence, the bags under her eyes and the gauntness sticking to her cheekbones was harsher in the dim light.

 

"It's normal. 128." David finally lied, dragging his chair back with a scrape as he quickly stood, and put an arm around her shoulders. "Come on. Let's go back to bed."

 

They hadn't even taken five steps before Patricia breathed a string of sad words. "I'm worried about Patrick."

'Me too' was all he wanted to say, but he knew he had to be the stronger one right now; If David broke down too, she'd only get worse. He couldn't go ranting about all the horrors of prison, and about how their youngest son was probably suffering most- if not all of them.

 

So instead, he squeezed her shoulder and smiled down at her. But he faltered when she looked up at him, her eyes dull and her expression bleak. "Don't you know anyone that could protect him?" She pleaded, "Someone that could help him in there?"

 

David wished he did. He wished the entire legal system was in his pocket, and that he could call in favors until Patrick was back home, safe and sound. And yet he didn't, so in the end, he had to shake his head softly. "No, dear. That's not how it works."

 

Abruptly, Patricia's head dropped and she exhaled sharply. She planted her heels and stopped walking, before raising her chin and staring David in the eyes seriously as he followed suit. "So how does it work?"

 

David knew exactly how it worked. But he wouldn't tell Patricia, it wasn't a pleasant thing to hear, and she was losing enough sleep already.

 

His silence made it worse. Lurching forwards, she threaded her hands into his sweater, eyes flooded with the sadness that had never seemed to leave them recently. "Someone has to help him, David. Someone has to take care of our little boy."

 

David dropped his head, teeth clamping down on the inside of his cheek. He wished he could help Patrick, he really did, but from the outside there wasn't much he could do.

He didn't know the higher-ups in the prison, he didn't know any board members, and all his connections and friends were rooted in the police force- and that was of no use Patrick right now.

 

"Who knows what they'll do to him-" Patricia continued, hands dropping along with her shoulders. "I mean, the guards, the inmates- Oh god, the drugs." Her voice cracked, she pressed her hands to her head, and her eyes got more distant with every word. She was imagining the worst.

 

With a shake of his head, David tried another lie to calm her down. "The prisons have systems in place- But, besides, Patrick's not that type of person."

 

Patricia was silent for a moment, all she did was blink and breathe for a few seconds until her eyes raised to David's, a dark solemn cloud hanging over her. "Shall I tell you what type of person Patrick is?"

David gulped but struggled to look away. He knew what type of person Patrick was, and that was exactly why he worried so much.

 

"He's vulnerable." Patricia insisted, eyes boring into David's. "Can you say- with 100% certainty, that nobody is going to hurt him?" When David said nothing, she leant forwards again. "Can you?"

 

No, he couldn't.

 

And if Patrick's deteriorating state was any indication, David would wager that Patrick had already been hurt. Bad…And goddammit, he knew he should be staying out of the whole situation, but he couldn't sit by and watch that happen. He was certain there was _something_ he could do, _someone_ he could ask for help, he'd call in as many friends of friends as it would take.

 

A few silent moments later, and David raised his head to see his wife's expression had changed. Worry, exhaustion and timidness had taken over again, her sudden burst of desperate anger was long fading.

 

"I'll go through my contacts and make some calls." David assured her quietly, mirroring her soft smile as one of his hands cupped her cheek. "Come on, you're a nervous wreck- you need sleep."

She didn't argue, and all David could do was search his brain for someone that could help. He begged he'd think of someone before morning, because after all, she was right; Patrick needed help, and he needed it soon.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Patrick woke up to someone pressing their hand over his mouth.

 

His first instinct was to panic. But, Patrick wasn't really a fight or flight person; he was more 'play dead'.

Freezing up, he inhaled so sharply pain cracked across his lungs, and soon enough, another hand was gripping his arm and pulling him to his feet. Ducking his head to avoid hitting it on the bunk above him, a surprised cry lodged in his throat as he was let go and shoved past the bars.

He didn't even have time to turn around to see the culprit before his back was against a wall. His shoulders bunched up, and just as Patrick had started preparing himself to see Ryan, or someone with similar motivations growling down at him, a familiar voice twisted his stomach into a knot.

 

"Why did you steal my phone?"

 

Pete.

 

Oh fuck.

 

His eyes were wide as he stared at the officer in front of him.

Pete's eyes were narrowed, his nose was wrinkled but despite how pissed the man looked, his gaze had trouble focusing on Patrick's eyes, opting to jump around on bandages and red patches instead.

 

Patrick could practically see the questions flying through Pete's head, but he was pretty sure Pete wasn't in the mood for catching up.

With a deep gulp and a prayer that he could be convincing just this once, Patrick feigned confusion. "I don't know what you're talking about."

 

Pete said nothing for a moment, and just as Patrick got to thinking that hey, maybe his lying had improved, Pete leant forwards until their noses were an inch apart.

 

"Tell me the truth."

 

The proximity and the accusation were enough to make Patrick's head swim in panic. How the fuck was he supposed to get out of this one? Pete's eyes were burning into his like iron brands, and Patrick felt smaller and smaller with each passing moment.

 

"I've spent the whole night checking security footage, and I saw you." Pete's mouth twisted into a scowl, his eyes flickered up and down Patrick's face. "I saw you take it out of my pocket."

 

Well, fuck.

 

Was there any point in lying anymore?

His head dropped and his eyes welled up in a second. "I'm so, so sorry-"

"I don't care if you're sorry-" Pete exclaimed, jerking back as his voice raising out of its menacing whisper. "You stole my fucking phone!"

 

Patrick should've known this would come back to bite him, he could hardly believe he'd gotten away with it for so long. And god, the timing was just terrible- then again, _any_ timing would've been awful.

With a soft exhale, Patrick blinked up at Pete and shakily held his hands out, a weak explanation tumbling out of his mouth clumsily. "Look- It was life or death, I swear, I had to do it-"

 

"Fuck, you always have an excuse, don't you?" Pete scoffed, the amount of disgust on his face felt like yet another fist in Patrick's gut.

 

"Pete, I swear, I-"

 

"You like to think you're different, but you're not." Pete snapped again, and this point, Patrick's only comfort was pressing himself against the wall and keeping the other man at arm's length.

 

"You are such an asshole- Y'know what, you _deserve_ those 7 years." Pete shifted from one leg to the other and his hands twitched every time his words were particularly hard, it was almost like he wanted to pace around, throw his hands up and yell but was still restraining himself.

 

"Oh, and if you think you're gonna waltz outta here Gerard's money- guess again." Patrick froze, his teeth making his cheek bleed. He knew about that, of course he knew about that-

 

"I'm not gonna let you walk out of here." Pete finished firmly, hands balling into fists that would've come towards Patrick, if the officer would've been a despot. Thankfully for Patrick, he doubted Pete would go there- even if he _was_ this angry.

 

After a few moments of silence, Patrick's eyes were teary, but he kept his sniffling stubbornly at bay and forced his voice to sharpen up. "Alright. Fine." He nodded deeply, "I stole your phone."

 

Pete snorted and rolled his eyes. "I _know_ you stole my-"

 

"But I had to do it. And if it came to it, I'd do it again." Patrick kept his voice as level as he could, and stared Pete in the eye despite every inch of him wanting to look away. The other man looked a little taken aback, but Patrick pressed on. "Now- I'm sorry. I really am. I wish there had been another way."

Slowly, Pete seemed to be shrinking back, and it occurred to Patrick that he might've been more hurt than angry. That made him feel worse for some reason.

 

Rubbing a hand over his face, Pete exhaled sharply and his eyes jumped to Patrick. He stared for a few more seconds, eyes drifting up and down, and then, he only motioned his head back towards the cell, before leaving Patrick alone on the dark gangway. "Go back to bed."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Go read something- fuck, _stop sulking_." Ryan glanced back over his shoulder, brow furrowed at Dallon.

The way he skulked around, the way his shoulders hunched, the way he kept his head down like a beaten dog- it was insufferable sometimes.

 

His cellmate obeyed quickly, all but ripping a book off the shelf beside his bunk and burying his nose in it.

 

With that distraction out of the way, Ryan lowered his head to the table and tried to organise his thoughts, while blocking out all the sounds of the prison; The birdsong outside, the footsteps, the loud chattering, and to top it all off, the rattle of industrial washing machines hung in the background; the rumbling sound droned into Ryan's ears, making his teeth grit as it distracted him from his thoughts.

As if the usual sounds of the penitentiary weren't enough, it was also laundry day. That meant people running back and forth between cells, that meant people loitering while their stuff washed and dried, and worst of all, it meant guards being nuisances.

 

"It's laundry day."

 

Ryan didn't even look up at the voice.

He really didn't think someone would come annoy him that quickly, but people just kept surprising him these days.

 

"Get your sheets and take them to the laundry room." The voice snapped again.

 

Holding back a sigh, Ryan sluggishly opened his eyes to see officer Walker, arms crossed and looking as bored as Ryan felt.

 

"Didn't you hear me?"

 

Letting out the long-suffering sigh he'd been holding, Ryan glanced back at Dallon and nodded towards the empty bunks in the room. "Go do the laundry."

 

As expected, Dallon rushed to grab the sheets and pace out of the cell. Before he even reached the bars however, Walker stepped into his path with a firm word and crossed arms. "No. Put them back."

Dallon glanced between Ryan, to Walker, then back to Ryan- looking more anxious every time.

 

The officer's heels dug into the ground, but his head snapped back towards Ryan. "You can't order your friends around." Ryan only raised an eyebrow. "He's not my friend. He's an assistant."

 

Walker wasn't amused in the slightest. He narrowed his eyes into slits and stepped towards the table, lowering his head. "Take your sheets to the laundry room."

 

Holding back yet another sigh, Ryan planted his palms on the table and sluggishly stood up.

With nonchalant steps, he moved towards Dallon and took the bundle of sheets from him without a word, trying to hold back an irritated groan at the nervous wide eyes that stared back at him.

When he moved out of the cell, Walker was following him like a shadow, and Ryan could feel the disapproving stare on the back of his neck.

 

Ryan glanced back, raising an eyebrow at the stony-faced officer. If Walker seriously expected him to do laundry, he was delusional.

Face blank, Ryan walked up to the railing. Then, with no hesitation, he threw the sheets over the end, watching them fall as chuckles and whistles from other prisoners cascaded around the gangways.

 

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Hands balled into fists, Walker snapped his words as he came to stop inches away from Ryan.

Ryan only turned towards him without an answer. He held his nerve, staring at the officer with a raised brow before his eyes pointedly moved towards the security cameras. Then back down to the officer's fists.

 

Ryan was certain that he wouldn't dare; He didn't have the nerve Wentz had had that day in the canteen.

 

As the man's shoulders dropped, and as his hands straightened out, Ryan knew he'd been right. He couldn't help a soft, amused smile as Walker scowled and hissed a few more words. "This doesn't end here." And with that, the officer stalked away- but not without shoving his shoulder into Ryan's as he did so.

 

 

 

 

 

The heaps of white sheets lay on the floor in a crumpled heap. Some people watched with mirth in their eyes, some laughed and idly kicked at the fabrics as they walked past, and some, like Andy, thought Ryan was a complete idiot.

 

"Bet that was totally worth it." Andy scoffed as he walked past them, shaking his head.

He glanced over his shoulder, eyes falling on Patrick.

 

The shorter man paced along beside him, just falling behind. His arms were full of his own laundry that he'd refused to fold, and his head was dipped.

 

Despite assuming Patrick had missed Ryan's little spectacle, Andy tried to string more than a one word answer out of Patrick. "Did you see that?" He tried, eyes stuck on the other man.

 

Patrick, who's chin was buried in his collarbones, only shrugged.

 

Andy hummed, displeased.

It was odd, Patrick had been fine last night. He'd been joking around with the rest of them, complaining about his 'itchy bandages', and well…he hadn't been so quiet.

Andy couldn't fathom what had happened between then and this morning, but Patrick wasn't keen on giving him an explanations, apparently.

 

Whatever the case, at least Patrick wasn't lying in bed, doing nothing. He'd silently followed instructions, grabbing armfuls of his laundry without any snarky comments, and he'd even left the cell. That was something, right?

 

They walked the rest of the way in silence, but just as they'd reached the laundry room door, Patrick's voice chimed up behind him, quiet and timid like the squeak of a church mouse.

 

"Have you seen Frank?"

 

Andy blinked, not fully registering it had been Patrick's voice at first. But when he turned and saw Patrick staring back at him, obviously expecting an answer, his face fell.

 

"Patrick-" Andy's eyes dropped closed as he sighed in exhaustion. How many times did he have to warn Patrick about Frank?

He heard a tiny sigh from Patrick, but he didn't let that stop him. His eyes snapped open and he shook his head, while pressing open the laundry room door with his shoulder. "You need to stop messing with Frank. You're playing with fire."

 

Patrick said nothing, his head had lowered again and he was back to his silent self. That made Andy stop dead in his tracks.

Did this have something to do with Frank? He furrowed his brow at his friend, worry curling in his stomach as he watched Patrick's blank eyes grazing the floor. "…Did Frank do something to you?"

 

"Andy." Patrick exhaled sharply, head sailing upwards. His eyelids looked as though they weighed a tonne, they were half-fallen over his eyes, "Have you seen Frank?"

 

Not appreciating the lack of a 'yes' or 'no' answer to his question, Andy shook his head determinedly. "I'm not enabling you anymore. If you know what's good for you, you'll stay away from him."

 

Patrick blinked slowly, a complete blankness behind his eyes. It was disconcerting, and Andy couldn't help the nervousness that made his fingers twitch.

In a second Andy hardly registered, Patrick dropped his laundry into Andy's arms, turned and walked away, muttering under his breath with every step he took.

 

Slightly annoyed by the extra laundry but also a little concerned, Andy blinked after Patrick.

He wanted to go after him, either to convince him to drop his business with Frank or to shake some sense into him, but the further away Patrick got, the less inclined he felt.

With one more hard exhale, he turned away from the hallway and pushed into the room, scanning it once.

He willed himself to put Patrick out of his head, and he hoped the feeling telling him that something was wrong would disappear too.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

After the disaster that was their last meeting, Pete had never really expected to be back in Dupre's office- let alone with an invitation.

 

And yet there he was.

 

That being said, he was more humble this time.

His hands fiddled with the loose threads on the knees of his jeans and he kept his eyes down.

 

Although it was unlike him, Pete had actually followed instructions this time.

He'd politely knocked on the door, and he'd only entered the room when Dupre had given the go ahead. He'd even said 'Good morning'.

 

But despite being a little sleep deprived, Pete hadn't missed the fact that there was another person in the room.

He was sat at one of the chairs in front of the desk, and for some reason, he seemed familiar.

It was only when he sat down and offered the man a polite nod that Pete was certain they'd never met…so why was the guy giving him a tidal wave of deja vu?

 

"Look at the state of you, Wentz." The inspector shook his head at the dark bags lining Pete's eyes, "You're a hideous, sleep-deprived mess."

 

Out of the corner of his eye, Pete saw the stranger tense a fraction, his head subtly flicking between Dupre and himself.

At the insult though, Pete only huffed, raising his head before returning the nod. "So it's just like looking in a mirror?"

 

Dupre snorted a chuckle and Pete followed suit.

Pete was used to the joking insults from his years working with the inspector, and besides, he'd given enough back to make them even forever.

 

"I'm uh- I'm sorry I lost it the other day." Pete cut through the last of the chuckling, scratching at the back of his neck. He threw his hands up weakly. "I just-"

 

"No, don't worry about it." Dupre stopped him with the firm words. "It happens."

Pete nodded softly and with that, Dupre leant forwards in his seat. "That's not why I asked you here, anyway."

 

Pete raised an eyebrow, shaking his head in a silent question.

"I wanted to introduce you to my friend here." Dupre raised a hand at the other man in the room. "This is David."

 

As Pete turned to shake his hand, now that they'd been formally introduced, he couldn't help but feel the sense that he knew the man running through him again.

There was something so familiar about the man, and yet Pete couldn't quite place it. There was nothing spectacular about him. Light brown hair that verged on blonde, blue eyes, pale- he was just an average middle-aged, middle class white guy.

 

As they dropped their hands, Dupre said something that coaxed a quiet choked sound from Pete. "He was our Superintendent for 24 years."

 

Pete couldn't help the way his eyes widened, he couldn't help the incredulous look he fired back at the former Superintendent either.

Wait, maybe that's why he found the man so familiar. The Superintendent of police must've visited the Homicide department once in a while, maybe he'd spotted him drinking coffee one afternoon or something. Yeah, the more he thought about it, the more it made sense.

 

"We worked together on a few cases." Dupre nodded at David, before turning back to Pete and folding his hands on the desk. "He wanted to ask you for a favour."

 

Pete blinked, a flicker of curiosity lighting his eyes as he looked over at David.

 

"Pete, do you have children?"

 

Slowly and slightly confused by the question, Pete shook his head, wondering if the eyebags and the 5 o'clock shadow really made him look _that_ old.

 

"I do. Three of them. And I love them more than anything." David said curtly, as though he were reading facts from an encyclopedia.

 

But then, his Adam's apple bobbed deeply, and Pete noticed the way his jaw tensed as he spoke.

 

"When I retired a few years ago, I thought everything was done. I had a great pension, a wonderful wife, good kids."

Pete's eyes flickered down to the man's fingers, they curled and tensed, the veins in their backs were throbbing.

Moving back to look the man in the eyes, Pete noted how _angry_ they seemed as he struggled the words out. "But things have changed. Significantly."

 

When David paused, Pete almost considered egging him on with a question or a nod, but-

 

"I have a son in USP Colbert."

 

Oh.

 

Of course. Pete's eyes almost fell closed as he made the connection in his head.

Great, the Superintendent probably had some stuck up, junkie son who got in trouble and ended up behind bars. And now, he was probably gonna ask Pete to bend over backwards for him and act like a glorified bodyguard.

 

"He's a good person, he really is-"

 

He bet David's son was an asshole.

"I'm sorry- I can't give special treatment to a prisoner." Pete cut in with an apologetic, tight smile, all while half wondering which one of the shuffling drug addicts in Colbert was the ex-Superintendent's son.

 

"No, that's not what I'm asking." David said quickly, right before his words slowed down and seemed to struggle. "Just- as a father, I'm asking you to…" Pete could practically see the gears turning and the thoughts darting around in his head like spooked rabbits.

He was trying to make favoritism seem justified, Pete was sure of it.

 

"I'm just asking you to look out for him. That's all." Then, the man's face dropped and a haunted look crossed his eyes. "I've seen the inside of a lot of prisons. I know what goes on, and I can't stand the thought of my son being in the middle of it."

 

Pete was pretty sure getting strangled by words was physically impossible, but David sure seemed to be giving it a try.

 

"…But I'm not stupid." David exhaled lowly, "I know what I'm asking isn't reasonable and I've learnt to deal with sleepless nights, but I'm only here for my wife."

 

Shit.

Sad parents were one of Pete's many weak points.

In fact, back when he'd worked with Dupre, he would have sat through hours of crime scene pictures and descriptions, but interviewing the parents had always made his eyes water.

And sometimes, when he felt especially shitty, he'd still hear them crying and sniffling. He'd see them in his head, clinging to each other, eyes red as they begged the police to find their babies- only to scream, shake and wail when they were told that only the bodies had been recovered.

 

"She can't sleep, she doesn't eat, all she does is worry and watch prison documentaries." The corners of the man's mouth quirked upwards sadly, "That doesn't help, as I'm sure you can imagine."

Pete gave the sad smile back.

With every word, David's eyes seemed to get sadder and Pete was sure he himself was following suit. "I'm only here because she asked me to get our son help. I spent all night going through my contacts, and well-" David nodded at Dupre, "Thankfully, I know good people."

 

It was only silence then, and all Pete could do was duck his head to the floor and try to ignore David's expectant stare.

Fuck, okay: From experience, Pete just _knew_ David's son was gonna be a wannabe-gangster with a mean streak. He was also gonna be _really_ entitled- he'd also throw 'My father will hear about this' a lot.

 

Pete held back a groan. God, the more he thought about the kid, the less he wanted to help.

…But then he thought about a terrified, nervous mom obsessively watching prison documentaries and seeing some horrible shit that only scared her more.

 

Holding back a colossal sigh, Pete nodded softly. "I'll see what I can do."

He heard David sigh in relief, and he looked up, trying to keep his face neutral as he asked, arguably the most important question in this whole situation. "What's your son's name?"

 

David nodded quickly, another shadow crossing his eyes. "Patrick Stump."

 

Wait.

 

"-He was just interned a little while ago, I'm not sure which block-"

 

Patrick.

 

"-I don't know if you need a- well, anyway, he's dark blond, he's a little pale, blue eyes-"

 

Pete wanted to drop his head onto the desk and bang it repeatedly.

 

When he finally stopped rambling about his son and noticed Pete's blanched face, David's brow furrowed. "Are you okay?"

 

No, not really.

 

He'd just agreed to take care of- to look out for… _Patrick_.

Patrick. Patrick Stump: the very same guy he'd dragged out of bed and yelled at in the small hours.

Regret. Regret, embarrassment, nerves and a strong urge to go back on his word were all hissing in Pete's stomach like a nest of vipers.

 

When he finally raised his head, he noticed the way the other two men stared at him, and he realized, that after being informed who David's son was, he'd dropped his head and he'd breathed heavily for a good few minutes.

 

They looked somewhere between concerned and curious. But David was a mind reader, apparently, as it had hardly been five seconds before he asked Pete a question that made his stomach drop:

 

"Do you know him?"

 

Pete hitched. His breath, his muscles, even his fucking heart all stopped for a millisecond before he groaned out a dubious answer. "Uh- we've spoken briefly."

David's eyes widened, a flash of eagerness crossing him as he leant up in his seat. "Was he alright? I- Well, I've always assumed he always behaves differently during the visits, but-"

 

"Fine. He was fine." Pete hurried, still completely his eyes were too wide for comfort.

With a clear of his throat, Pete jerked his head away and stood up. "I uh- I gotta go."

 

Both Dupre and David opened their mouths to speak, but it was far too late, Pete had rocketed out of the office, clumsily stumbled through the door and was long gone by the time either man registered it.

 

 

 

 

 

"…Well, that's Pete Wentz."

Dupre said slowly, a slight daze behind his voice as he stared at the door the young man had just dove through.

Shaking his head as if to clear it, the inspector leant back in his seat and turned back to David. "He was one of the best we've had in Homicide. But, some bastards went after his sister and he chickened out."

 

"A shame." David said simply.

When Dupre had talked Pete up, David had been reluctant to believe him.

He knew the inspector was always fond of his apprentices, but well, the man had seemed smart. Enough.

More importantly, he didn't seem like a bad person, that was all that mattered to David right now. If Pete had seemed like a despot, David might've given him a fake name instead of Patrick's.

 

The inspector hummed, eyes flicking to the door one last time. "It's not all bad, his brother's doing well." Dupre raised his brow, huffing quietly. "He's a lot braver."

 

"Bravery isn't always a good thing." David chuckled, idly thinking back on the times his own attempts at bravery had ended up in injuries. The memory of a broken arm- the result of trying to climb a pine tree, rang clearly in his head.

 

Dupre nodded in agreement, and David exhaled deeply, feeling a lot calmer after Pete had agreed to help Patrick. He nodded deeply, "Thanks for introducing me."

 

The inspector gave a huff that meant 'you're welcome' before furrowing his brow, "You really hadn't met him before?"

 

When he really thought about it, he _could_ picture a blurry memory of a skinny, dark-haired boy, trailing around next to Dupre, there was always either a grin or an outraged look on his face. Maybe that had been Pete, and if so…time had changed him.

 

David shrugged slowly. "I mean, I remember a kid working in Homicide and I thought it was odd." He shrugged thereafter. "But I trusted your judgement."

With a shake of his head, he leant forwards again, making a move to stand as he thanked Dupre one more time. "Really, Rob- I, thank you. Thank you so much."

The inspector shrugged and nodded all at once. "That's what friends are for."

David huffed, and just as he moved to stand, Dupre leant back in his chair, joined his hands, and furrowed his brow.

 

"And since we're friends, there's something I wanted to discuss with you."

 

David paused.

Gulping quietly, he nodded and settled back down into his chair. He tipped his chin up and listened to Dupre, all while ignoring the feeling of pure worry in the pit of his stomach.

 

"I'm investigating a case." Dupre began, "An assault on an armored van carrying 9 million dollars that have, apparently disappeared. Four people are dead because of it."

 

His insides froze, but David fought past it and raised his brow, wondering how on earth Dupre had connected him to this. It was a silent question, but one the inspector understood.

 

On the other side of the desk, Dupre exhaled quietly. "An inmate has accused your son of knowing where the money is."

 

David felt even colder. He gulped again, wincing as he realized how suspicious his Adam's apple bobbing nervously must look. "All I care about is my son's safety." He said thickly, his words strangled and slow.

He didn't appreciate this, it was obviously a backhanded accusation and David would do his best to clear the man's suspicions. The last thing he needed was the police getting involved.

 

"Of course." The Inspector said quickly, "And I trust you completely. I know you'd never go looking for that money."

"Of course not." David snapped, quick reactions were more believable, after all.

 

"Of course." Dupre repeated like an echo in a cave. The ghost of a smile settled on his mouth for a moment, before his face dropped again. "But, just try and understand me here." He cocked his head and shook it. "I'd hate to see you get mixed up in something ugly."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"He's on a rampage." Joe chuckled, glancing over his shoulder to watch officer Walker stride into the laundry room.

 

Andy huffed from beside him, but said nothing. He'd been curt on his words today.

 

Admittedly, Joe had been a little late to the laundry party, but when he'd arrived, Andy had been silent, leaning against a while as the colossal washing machines churned. Joe had tried to make conversation by relating back to their shared interest: Patrick.

…But, Andy had ended up giving one word answers that made concern prickle down Joe's spine. Andy wasn't usually the most extroverted, but this seemed like a whole other league to him.

 

"Wash that."

Joe turned to watch Walker as he tossed a spare uniform onto the ironing board, right under Mikey's nose.

Mikey raised an eyebrow, "Oh yeah, totally." He drawled, raising his brow mockingly as he snatched the uniform up. "Want me to suck your dick too?"

 

"Shut it." Walker snapped, before going back to his typical drone. "Just get on with it. You're on thin ice already-"

 

As much as Joe had been enjoying the mildly entertaining show, it didn't take long before something pulled his eyes away.

The laundry room door opened, and none other than Patrick paced through.

 

His face was a little red and his brow was furrowed, but just as Joe considered calling out to him, he walked straight past his friendlier cellmates, and straight towards Frank.

 

"Frank, can I talk to you for a sec?"

 

Frank didn't look up from the pile of clothes he was folding. "Sure, what's up?"

"Can you get me something?" Patrick said quickly, but Frank only smiled and shrugged leisurely. "Depends. I can't exactly smuggle in another _lawyer_ -"

 

"I need uh- I need Xanax. And some painkillers, maybe." Shit, Patrick sounded…tired, to say the least. His voice was dull and almost dazed as he drearily stumbled over his words.

 

Not wanting to give the game away entirely, Joe turned away from the scene but kept his ears pricked. When he glanced at Andy out of the corner of his eye, he could tell the other man was doing the same.

 

Frank's voice came again. "I'll see what I can do. But uh- It'll be pretty expensive." He huffed bemusedly, voice lowering to a haughty whisper. "9 million bucks."

 

Joe could practically see Patrick's face fall blank in his head, and it only took a glance over his shoulder to confirm it.

Frank huffed and lowered his voice again, turning to Patrick fully as he braced a hand on the ironing board. "Listen, like, on top of everything you already owe me-" He tilted his head to the side, eyes flicking upwards and a frown taking his face as he looked thoughtful. "Call it uh…3,000 bucks and that's it."

Frank held an offer of a handshake up to Patrick, who stared at it like it was an alien creature. "We'll call it quits."

 

The incredulous look cleared from Patrick's eyes, and soon enough he was nodding tightly and shaking Frank's hand once. "Fine." His throat sounded constricted as he forced the word out, but that was apparently enough for Frank.

 

Joe ducked his head again as Patrick moved away from Frank, but to his surprise-

 

"Hey guys." Patrick said weakly as he moved up beside Joe, craning his neck to nod at them both.

Glancing at each other and making a silent agreement, Joe and Andy's eyes flicked towards Patrick. They stared at him like disapproving parents, brows furrowed and mouths shaped into straight lines.

 

Patrick rolled his eyes, the lines under his eyes making him look even more exasperated than he should've. "I know, I know- I shouldn't ask him for stuff, but what am I supposed to do? I can't fucking sleep, I'm tired all the time. Like, I need to be alert, and-"

 

"The point is, asking for Xanax and painkillers tells Frank you're tired and injured." Andy hissed, and Joe could only nod vigorously in agreement. "Frank knows you're weak now. Every prisoner in every prison in the entire county is gonna know too." Joe added quickly, grimacing at the thought of Frank's little web of connections.

 

"First of all," Patrick scoffed, looked a little indignant as he did so. "I'm not weak."

 

Joe and Andy raised their brows dubiously.

 

Patrick made a choked sound and crossed his arms firmly. "Well, every prisoner in every prison in the entire county can go fuck themselves, then."

 

 

 

 

 

Patrick's laundry was firmly back in his own arms.

 

It was clean- he'd thanked Andy for his help there quite a lot. When he thought back on it, he'd been too dazed to even realized that giving his sheets and clothes to Andy to wash was a total dick move.

 

And despite his many dick moves, neither man had held it against him, for too long, and things were back to relatively normal before Patrick could even apologize for the sixteenth time.

 

Finally leaving the laundry room, the trio were in the middle of a particularly avid conversation about pets.

 

All it had taken was Patrick mentioning Penny, his dog that had been sent to the pound when he'd been imprisoned (and that had since been taken in by his sister since then, thankfully), and things had spiraled from there.

Joe had taken them through a timeline of his pets, starting with the obese family cat that had been around before his birth, to the turtle his parents had bought him on his eighth birthday, to the snake they'd refused to get him on his twelfth.

 

"It was so cool," Joe shook his head, "but my mom said I'd just scare my brother with it-"

"She was probably right." Andy interjected, earning a laugh from Patrick and dramatic wounded look from Joe. "I would _not_ have scared my brother-"

 

" _Sure_."

 

They moved along the floor, the stairs up to their floor was only a few feet away, when Pete, of all people, finished descending them. He came to a stop, staring forwards as his eyes stuck to Patrick like glue.

 

Patrick's fingers went cold. Pete was truly one of the last people he wanted to see today.

He wasn't mad at the officer, Patrick knew _he_ was in the wrong, but try as he might, he couldn't forget how furious Pete had been last night.

 

Thankfully, Joe and Andy didn't notice the way Patrick shirked back from Pete as they walked past.

As they brushed past him, Patrick had truly been expecting a glare from the man; Pete had been so pissed off and hurt, the image of Pete's narrowed eyes had been haunting Patrick since then.

 

But, instead of a poisonous glare, all he got from Pete was a timid-

 

"Hi."

 

Patrick blinked, eyes wide at Pete as he struggled a 'hello' in response. And before Patrick had even gotten to the third step on the stairs, Pete's voice rang out again.

 

"Uh- Patrick?"

 

Patrick's eyes were wide.

 

Uh, okay, truthfully he would've preferred avoiding Pete today.

Hoping they could help him out, Patrick glanced back at Joe and Andy helplessly, but to his surprise, they were already at the top of the stairs, leaning against the banister and talking to each other inconspicuously.

God fucking damn it, they weren't gonna help him and to make matters worse, they were gonna eavesdrop. Patrick had some really fantastic friends.

 

With a rueful squint, Patrick opted to ignore them and make his way towards Pete, keeping his head low as he walked straight towards the warden.

 

"Holding up okay?" Pete said softly.

In surprise, Patrick's head jerked up and he nodded, vocal chords feeling too tense to give an answer.

Pete's eyes were grazing the bandages in the same, concerned way they had last night. Patrick assumed the light meant he could see them better now.

 

"Did you sleep okay?" Pete tried again.

"Uh…" Patrick droned, before swallowing deeply and trying a few words, his voice cracking as he did so. "F _in_ e, thanks."

Patrick's face scrunched up as his own voice faltered, but Pete only found it funny apparently; A small, twitchy smile lit up Pete's face and he nodded quickly, "Good."

 

Slightly awkward silence followed, but before long, Pete was clearing his throat and insisting on being polite again. "Well, I'm glad you're okay."

 

Patrick nodded again, and taking a step backwards, Pete shot him nothing short of a friendly, charming smile. "See you around."

Suddenly overtaken by a bashful teenage girl, Patrick felt his face heat up and he stood there, stuttering and frozen. "Y-Yeah, sure- cool, I, uh-"

 

Patrick cleared his throat, finally banishing the smile from his mind's eye and turning to stomp up the stairs with a furrowed brow.

 

Well what the fuck was that reaction?

 

Trudging back towards his friends, Patrick gingerly touched a hand to his cheek, grimacing when he felt how warm it was. Oh shit, it was probably bright red- _fuck_. Why did his body deem that an acceptable response?

 

He groaned angrily in the back of his throat, scrubbing at his cheek and narrowing his eyes at Joe and Andy as they began to make their way to the cell again.

"What was _that_ about?" Joe wiggled his eyebrows, but Patrick snapped a glare at him.

Andy, on the other hand, only looked incredulous, and like he had a thousand questions Patrick most definitely was not going to answer.

 

"Hey- ' _Holding up okay, babe?_ '" Sliding an arm around Patrick's shoulders, Joe crooned with an impression of Pete that was _completely inaccurate_. Patrick shoved his arm off and scowled. It only made Joe laugh harder.

Andy, on the other hand, just looked too perplexed for Patrick's liking; He looked as though he was trying to solve a mystery or decode something.

 

Patrick didn't appreciate either of their antics, but all he could do narrow his eyes at both men as they continued. Insufferably.

By the time they reached the cell, Joe had just finished laughing at his own impression of a stuttering, lovestruck Patrick, while Andy had finally raised his eyes, hypothesis ready to strike. "I think he was-"

Patrick rolled his eyes and growled to cut the man off. He dumped his laundry on the foot of his bunk and flopped down on the mattress, burying his face in the pillow with one final huff: "Grow the fuck up."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"You're not in the kitchen anymore?" Mikey watched Ryan trudge into the laundry room, a scowl on his face as he dragged a cleaning trolley along behind him.

"No. They moved me to cleaning." Shoving the trolley to the side with a sharp exhale, Ryan gave Mikey his stale answer, voice and features curling with irritation. "Oh fuck." Mikey snorted, shaking his head before doing his best to console his friend- and stay on his good side.

 

Spencer watched them from the shadowy corner between the industrial dryer and the wall.

He chewed on the inside of his cheek, twitches plaguing his hands and shoulders as he watched the men speak.

 

Mikey had pulled Ryan away from the cleaning trolley, their voices dropping as they spoke quietly. Spencer's eyes flicked over to the trolley; That was his window. He just needed to be surgical about this.

 

Sliding his soles along the floor, Spencer quietly moved towards the trolley, taking its inventory with every new step. Four bottles of bleach, a pile of rags, a bucket, a mop, a brush- there weren't many good hiding places, but it didn't matter.

 

He came to a stop beside the trolley, keeping his back to it as he glanced back at Ryan and Mikey again. They were still mid-conversation, faces blank and serious.

Then, he looked over at Frank. He was ironing his clothes roughly, a look of boredom on his face. But he would be facing Ryan, once he moved back over. Good.

 

Spencer bit down on the inside of his cheek and reached into his pocket, fingers tightening around the plastic packet there.

Admittedly, Spencer wasn't sure if this was a good idea.

 

But…fuck, he needed it.

 

With a shake of his head, he shot his hand out of his pocket and stuck the small packet between a few of the rags. Ryan would find it there, hopefully.

 

The second it was done, Spencer walked away, forcing himself to move slowly even though he wanted to sprint away. He didn't want to look suspicious now, not when he still had half of the plan to fulfill.

 

Leaning back against the wall, he watched Ryan. And it looked like Spencer had been just in time, as Ryan pulled away from Mikey not four seconds later and moved back towards the trolley, and his duties.

Spencer's heart had lurched up to his throat as he watched Ryan stop beside the cleaning supplies, suddenly freezing as his eyes flicked towards the rags.

 

Spencer's eyes widened as he watched the man reach into the pile, take the packet, and finally, stuff it into his pocket.

Still on edge, Spencer's eyes flicked over to Frank. He was watching, a wide eyed, indignant look on his face.

 

Finally, Spencer breathed a sigh of relief, twitchy shoulders dropping against the wall. His end of the bargain was done.

 

With one last stare at Ryan- who had now begrudgingly started mopping the floor, Spencer manoeuvred past waves of prisoners and hurried out of the laundry room.

That was it, he'd done it, everything was gonna work out. He wove through hallways, past people, and finally, broke out into the main cell block.

He glanced around, eyes scanning the gangways, the ground floor, and finally, his eyes dropped on his target.

 

With a quick exhale, he hurried towards Jon Walker. The officer acknowledged him with a tiny nod, and Spencer was quick to answer the silent question that hung between them. "It's done."

 

"Was Frank there?" Jon's voice was low and quiet, and Spencer could only nod fervently. The warden frowned thoughtfully and nodded once. "Good job."

Spencer's mouth quirked into a smile, still staring at the warden expectantly. He was sure Jon would uphold his end of the bargain.

 

A few moments later, the officer glanced at him and huffed, clapping a hand on Spencer's shoulder and raising his brow. "Stop using that stuff, Spencer." He squeezed his shoulder, "It's bad for you."

 

Spencer's heart dropped. "Wait- no, we had a deal-" Jon huffed again, dropping his hand. "You'll thank me one day."

Disheartened and helpless, Spencer watched him leave, walking away with a new spring in his step. Shit. Shit, he'd screwed Ryan over for nothing. He'd pissed off Frank too. He didn't exactly like either of them, but- but, shit, if they ever found out…

Spencer gulped deeply, there was nothing but regret in the pit of his stomach, and he had nothing to show for it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Having police around the prison always made the Governor nervous. But having an inspector sulking around was comparably worse.

It made her feel like she, and by extension, her establishment, were all under a magnifying glass, and if there was one thing she despised, it was being criticized; Sometimes, she was honestly surprised she hadn't fired Pete because of that.

Regardless, she exhaled lowly and smiled at the inspector politely, folding her hands on the desk. "What can I do for you, Inspector?"

"I have a few questions about Patrick Stump." Well, he didn't mince his words.

The Governor couldn't help but blink at the request, but she did her best to comply, nodding firmly and raising her brow. "I can get him for you, if you-"

 

"No, I don't want to talk to him." The inspector was quick to shake his head, leaning up in his seat. "I'd rather talk to a friend of his, does he have any?"

 

The Governor blinked oddly again, taken aback. "Uh, I'm not sure…" She said slowly, truthfully, she didn't know enough about the inmate to answer the question. But maybe someone else did.

 

Standing from her seat, she excused herself politely as she could and made her way out of the office.

She stopped at the small hallway that led out of the offices, eyes locking on the first warden she saw, "You." The officer turned quickly, jumping as though he'd seen a ghost. The Governor sighed her order, before turning back to return to the inspector. "Tell Pete to come to my office."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Generally, Joe was a calm guy.

Sure, he had his moments, he tended to freak out in bad situations, and okay, admittedly, he couldn't keep his cool in _all_ the time.

 

He glanced around the room he waited in.

It was plain, that was the only word for it. A cheap table, a plastic chair on either side, concrete walls, and last but not least, a two way mirror on the furthest wall. The place wasn't threatening at all, the sight of it didn't make his pulse speed up or anything, but the thing was, Joe didn't know why he was there.

 

He'd just left the canteen after midday, and he'd been making a beeline to his cell when a guard had called him over. And a few minutes later, he'd been pulled away from everyone else, pushed into this room, and told to 'wait'.

 

So as time ticked by, as nobody came through the door, Joe's palms started feeling that little bit warmer and he'd started bouncing his leg to keep his mind off the anxiety of waiting.

He'd tried retracing everything he'd done the past week, wondering which action had landed him here and who would walk through the door as a result.

 

After that, it wasn't long before his questions were answered.

 

The door opened with a quiet squeak, and Joe's head snapped towards it as he watched a man pace inside.

He was tall, slightly scowling, and he nonchalantly held a clipboard in his one of his hands.

 

Joe straightened up in his chair as he watched the man take the other seat opposite him.

The stranger looked down at his clipboard, one eyebrow raising as his eyes scanned whatever was on the paper. Joe blinked, brow furrowing at his silence.

 

He'd been waiting in this place for what felt like at least an hour, his nerves couldn't take anymore mystery.

Joe squirmed in his seat and crossed his arms, leaning his elbows on the table as he watched the man firmly.

 

The stranger's eyes flicked upwards. "Joseph Trohman, correct?"

Joe gave a slow nod, eyes squinting of their own suspicious accord. "But only my mom calls me Joseph, really."

 

"I'll stick with Trohman then."

 

Joe shrugged, that suited him just fine.

 

"My name is Rob Dupre, I'm an inspector for the Chicago PD." The man said, his voice a complete deadpan.

"Okay." Joe said slowly, eyes shifting between the Inspector and the two way mirror; He wondered who was watching them behind there. He also wondered why a fucking inspector wanted to talk to _him_.

 

"If this is correct…" Dupre dropped his eyes back to his clipboard, "You're serving three years for theft and arson of a vehicle."

Joe held back a sigh and nodded dejectedly. That had been one of the dumber moves in his life, but it hadn't entirely been his fault. Nobody believed that, of course.

 

The Inspector's eyes snapped upwards, a glint of disapproval behind them. "But your sentence has increased as a result of your behaviour."

Joe was not exactly endeared by the judging tone the inspector spoke to him in, but the man exhaled with exasperation anyway, listing the words off from the clipboard again. "Fights with other inmates, possession of a knife, assaulting a warden-"

 

"I'm pretty sure he assaulted me a little more." Joe muttered under his breath, nose wrinkling as he remembered the way his collarbone still clicked in odd places thanks to Walker.

 

When Dupre said nothing, Joe sighed and flopped his head to the side. "Alright, what is this actually about?" He huffed at the man's expression, that somehow managed strictness and blankness all at once. "I doubt you took a break from your nice office and your paperwork to come lecture me."

 

The Inspector dropped the clipboard by his side, "This is about two murders that have been committed in connection to USP Colbert: Gerard Way and Ray Toro."

 

Joe's throat tightened and he dropped his eyes to the small dents and grooves on the table instead. That was serious shit. The kind of serious shit Joe didn't like getting involved in.

 

"Both are also connected to a SIM card." Dupre's imposing voice almost echoed in the room, "Which _you_ apparently know the location of."

 

Joe suddenly felt very cold. He stiffly glanced upwards, teeth biting down on the inside of his lip. He should've known. He should've known that bullshit would land him here.

Having a phone? That was fine, it was pretty normal, in fact. But Gerard's SIM card? That was a whole other ballpark-

 

"Patrick Stump, your cellmate, has been accused of its possession."

 

Oh.

Joe wasn't being accused- _Patrick_ was, as he should be.

He held no ill will towards the guy, but being led to believe he was taking the blame for his stunt with that SIM card was enough to make him just a little resentful.

 

"So why aren't you interrogating him?" Joe kept his voice as level as he could, but he could tell the Inspector could see through him like polished glass. "Because the kind of details a judge needs, aren't going to come from Patrick."

 

Joe gave the inside of his bloody lip a break and exhaled slowly. "And why do you think they're gonna come from me?"

 

"Because it would mean a lot to the Behavior Committee." Dupre smiled for the first time since he'd sat down, but Joe's frown only grew deeper. "And?"

 

"The prison will withdraw its charges against you." The other man nodded once. "You'll be on day release next month."

 

Joe couldn't help the way his jaw dropped.

Honestly, since he'd walked in here, all he'd heard was how his sentence would keep extending, how he'd never be free again if he kept misbehaving, but look where it had led him.

All the admittedly shady stuff he'd done, had led here.

 

Day release- that meant going home.

That meant seeing his mom and dad, and being able to hug them for more than three fucking seconds. That also meant food that wasn't probably toxic, and it meant being surrounded by people who weren't angry criminals with a hair-trigger temper.

He could straighten his act out, he could seriously be out of here in three years. And then he'd be out for good, this place could go straight to hell.

 

…But that meant stabbing Patrick in the back.

 

Joe's teeth went back to worrying his lip.

Okay, whatever they were going to ask him to do to Patrick wasn't going to be pleasant. He'd be ratting out a generally decent guy, and well, god knows how the police would treat him. Shit, what if they extended his sentence by like, twenty years?

What if Patrick became a hardened criminal and came looking for Joe when he'd been released after three decades?

 

Okay, that wasn't likely, but-

 

"Trohman?"

 

Jolted out of his thoughts, Joe looked up at the Inspector.

His eyes glittered with something vaguely sympathetic as he smiled and raised his brow, hands palm up when he spoke.

 

"Hasn't he gotten you in enough trouble already?"

 

 

 

 

Joe kept still as an officer fit the wire under his shirt.

The lump in his throat felt like a boulder, it had settled and refused to leave the moment Joe had agreed to the Inspector's little scheme.

 

That led to now. Dupre's assistant fussing over the wire and checking it, the Inspector and the Governor watching on with straight faces, and Joe desperately trying to ignore his conscience.

 

"We need to hear any conversations between you." Dupre finally said as the assistant finished with the wire, finally letting Joe drop his arms and button the top half of his uniform up.

"Doesn't matter what it's about- we want to hear it." The Inspector pressed, "Get him talking and steer the conversation. Is that clear?"

 

Joe tried to swallow past the lump, but he couldn't. He settled for a shaky exhale instead, before looking up at the officials as firmly as he could. "Crystal."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The truth was that this had started feeling like a bad idea as more time went on.

 

Pacing through the buzzing parking lot, David exhaled slowly and kept his eyes on the concrete below his feet.

He'd been a little more nervous about all of this since his meeting with Rob, but now, as they retook the very steps Kevin had, David could hardly stop his stomach from writhing with it.

 

He glanced over his shoulder, eyes quickly falling on Kevin.

His eldest son followed in silence, head bowed and gaze thoughtful. The lines under his eyes had gotten a little deeper since his encounter with Ryan's accomplice.

 

David couldn't help the guilt that piled on his shoulders; Kevin was so young, he'd just graduated, he'd found a good stable job. He should've been living his life, settling down, but instead, he was getting tangled in this web that was slowly getting more and more complex.

David's eyes fell on the shovel in his son's hand and he sighed, dropping his head back forwards. Then again, Kevin was strong, he could handle this- and so could David. This would be quick and clean, and before long, Patrick would be home free.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Patrick- Hey, come sit here!"

 

Patrick's head jerked up at the voice, brow furrowing suspiciously the minute he saw Ryan.

For someone who had spent all morning mopping the floors, he hadn't humbled at all.

 

He sat on the bleachers lazily, and out of his little gang, only Dallon was by his side. Mikey was nowhere to be seen.

Knowing refusing the man was probably a bad idea, Patrick moved towards him as nonchalantly as possible.

 

"Move." Ryan nudged Dallon a little more roughly than needed and the taller man instantly shuffled away obediently.

Bracing his forearms on his thighs, Ryan leant forwards with a friendly smile on his features. "Sit down."

The scariest part was that it didn't look malicious or two-faced at all. Anyone else would've mistaken Ryan for a good person.

 

Patrick obliged him however, taking the seat Dallon had fled from. He kept his eyes forwards though, not too keen on looking Ryan in the eyes.

 

"So, I hear congratulations are in order." Ryan's smile remained, nudging Patrick's shoulder with his own.

Patrick's brow furrowed, but the other man only chuckled lightly. "You're gonna be a dad, huh?"

 

Patrick froze, head snapping towards Ryan, his jaw dropping, his eyes widening.

 

He knew.

How did he know- How the _actual_ _fuck_ did he know?

 

Ryan whistled lowly, leaning back on his hands and squinting up at the clouds. "Quite a woman- your ex: She gets knocked up and locks you up."

 

He knew about Elisa, that was to be expected; Ryan had figured out who his parents were with no difficulty whatsoever, but he knew about the _baby_.

Patrick felt sick, but he didn't have much time to linger on the thought before Ryan was nudging his knee with his own.

 

"So, have you thought about my proposition?"

 

Patrick blinked for a second, taken off guard by the jarring change of topic. A moment later he remembered, and did his best not to growl a sigh. "I've already told you. I don't have the money."

 

"Not yet. But you will." Ryan smiled softly. Patrick scoffed quietly, his words rueful and sarcastic all at once. "Thanks for believing in me."

 

"I do." Ryan nodded deeply, eyes stuttering to a stop on Patrick's. "And then what?"

Truly exasperated, exhausted and worried about his unborn child, Patrick threw his hands up and barked his words. "Then, fine. I pay my bail and you get the rest."

It felt like making a deal with the devil, but Ryan knew about Elisa. Patrick would give him anything at this point.

 

"Sorry to interrupt your meeting."

 

Both Patrick and Ryan's heads jerked over to the voice, only to find that Frank was pacing up to them. He came to a stop, ignoring Patrick as he turned to the orange-clad man instead. "Can I talk to you, Ryan?"

 

Not particularly wanting to hear that conversation, Patrick rose to his feet, but before he'd made much leeway, Ryan grabbed his arm.

Patrick held in the urge to rip his hand away, and only glanced over his shoulder to see Ryan smiling again. "We'll talk later."

 

With that, Patrick left, walking away at a brutal pace. Ryan could see quiet anger rising from him like steam from a kettle; Patrick didn't have a great poker face, it seemed.

 

"I have a question."

 

Ryan's eyes flicked back towards Frank, and he flashed his brow quickly, "Shoot."

With a slow sigh, Frank slid onto the seat Patrick had left behind. He cocked his head at Ryan. "Do I fuck your maid?"

 

Ryan's nose wrinkled, blinking at the brash question. "Huh?"

 

"You heard me." Frank growled, "And you know why I don't?"

Ryan assumed shrugging wouldn't be a good idea, so he kept quiet and let Frank snarl as much as he wanted to. "'Cause I respect you."

The other man leant forwards, jaw locked and every inch of him tense with rage Ryan could almost _see_.

 

"I respect your property and your business- but you aren't respecting mine."

 

With a quiet scoff of a laugh he couldn't exactly help, Ryan raised his brow coolly. "What are you talking about, Frank?"

 

"You're selling drugs." Frank growled in the back of his throat. "Drugs are _my_ business."

 

"Frank- I'm not selling anything." Ryan raised his brow, but it only seemed to spark Frank's anger. "Don't fucking lie to me. I saw you with my own two eyes."

Slowly, Ryan leant back and frowned deeply. He wasn't going to take this shit from Frank, he had a reputation to uphold. "Drugs are _your_ business. Huh." He furrowed his brow, "Are you sure about that?"

 

"I've held off for a while 'cause I was being watched." Frank snapped, almost frothing at the mouth at this point. "But it's still _my_ territory."

"So, what-" Ryan huffed bemusedly, keeping his gaze as confident and condescending as it would go. "Are you _threatening_ me?"

Frank remembered himself.

His shoulders dropped, his chin raised and he stood, staring down at Ryan with dark eyes and a simple promise. "If you don't respect my property, I won't respect yours."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Dad, I've been thinking."

 

David hummed curiously, glancing away from the road for a second.

He watched his son fidget a little in the corner of his eye, "I don't think we should tell mom and Megan about this."

 

Hands tightening around the steering wheel, David exhaled gently and nodded slowly. "I'd say that…the occasional secret can help a family."

Kevin smiled at him, but it was a little shakier than David was used to. The guilty nest of snakes in his stomach twisted again.

 

The silence in the car wasn't long lived, soon enough, Kevin was reading his dad instructions from the scrap of paper in his pocket. "It's just half a mile away."

 

David nodded, but as he glanced up at the mirror, he noticed something.

There was a van behind them. It was white, although the paint was a little chipped, and it seemed familiar…why did it seem familiar?

 

"It's over there." With a note of urgency to his voice, Kevin pointed at a small lane that branched away from the path. There was a rusted metal sign with white letters, boldly reading 'Breton Forest'.

 

Still watching the van behind them, David's eyes widened and realization hit him like a train.

 

"There- Dad- It's down there-" Kevin hurried, taking a moment to shake his dad by the shoulder, but stubbornly, David kept driving.

They sailed past the lane, and Kevin could only throw his hands up and glare weakly. "Shit, you missed it- we're gonna have to-"

 

"I know." David said curtly, giving the mirror another quick glance. "The van behind us has been trailing us for half an hour."

 

Kevin moved to turn and look, but David was quick. "Don't look." He watched his son freeze out of the corner of his eye, before sighing and hoping Kevin would be able to stay calm.

"I'm going to slow down." He said slowly, making sure Kevin understood the orders clearly. They couldn't afford any mistakes. "Check if it's Ryan's accomplice. Be careful."

 

With a rapid nod and a gulp, Kevin slowly peeked his eyes around the headrest of his seat. A second later, and all David heard was Kevin crashing back into his seat, his voice a panicky stumble. "It's him- Oh fuck, it's him."

 

David held back his own nervous sigh. He needed to show strength right now, it would do no good for both of them to start panicking.

 

With a wild look in his eyes, Kevin glanced at his dad, words slurring together at their speed. "What do we gonna do?"

Taking a moment to pull his plan together, David glanced back up at the mirror, then at his son. "We're going to keep driving. We're going to stop, and then, we'll start digging."

 

Kevin made a choked noise, throwing a hand up at the path in front of them that was decidedly wrong. "But, it's not _here_ -"

 

"Trust me, Kevin."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"It's down here." Mikey called, voice getting a little shaky as he glanced back at Ryan behind him.

The other man stalked after him, his face was thunder and he was stiff all over.

If what Mikey had told him was true- and he could be 90% it was since Mikey _never_ lied to him, then Ryan would probably be this pissed off for a good month.

 

Crashing through the door at the end of the hallway, the two came to a stop.

 

Laundry hung everywhere, lines running across the concrete beams were draped with what must've been hundreds of white sheets, blocking everything behind them from view.

There was a small huddle of people, some holding the sheets back as they all stared down at something on the floor.

 

A growl nestled in the back of his throat, Ryan soldiered towards them and shoved past the small crowd, his eyes falling on the crumpled, lanky figure on the floor.

 

"Fuck." He muttered under his breath, stepping towards the beaten, bloody mess he already knew was Dallon.

 

The man at his feet was destroyed.

 

His face was almost unrecognizable, it looked as though a thousand hornets had stung him all over.

Dallon's breathing was slow, wheezing and ragged, as though every breath was a tortuous struggle, and his eyes were so swollen Ryan doubted he could even see.

His skin was mottled with red, black and purple, and his hair was matted with blood.

He was curled into the fetal position, body twitching and trembling with aftershocks and hands curled into stiff, shaky claws.

 

There was a lump in Ryan's throat.

 

"Get out." He said, barely sparing a glance at the group behind him.

When he didn't hear footsteps, Ryan inhaled sharply and snapped towards them.

"GET OUT." He yelled so loudly he could feel the veins popping in his neck. He turned away from them once they'd hurried away, whispers still tacked along with them.

 

Staring back down at Dallon, Ryan crouched down and breathed slowly. "They really messed you up, didn't they?" He settled a hand on Dallon's shoulder as the man made choked, gurgling noises, the blood leaving his nose and mouth in slimy strings.

 

Drawing his hand back, Ryan dragged it over his face and looked up, eyes set forwards firmly. This was a problem. This was disrespect. This could ruin his fucking reputation.

 

Just then, Dallon gave a weak sob that sounded more like a dog than a human.

Ryan dropped his head and sighed. "Calm down." He dragged the same hand through Dallon's hair, feeling hard clots of blood all over the man's scalp.

Dallon whimpered at the touch, cringing away and weakly curling up even further. Quiet, timid sobs escaped him, almost as though he was too afraid to cry.

 

Huh. Imagine that. Ryan couldn't help but chuckle.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Joe shuffled towards the cell, the weight of the wires were heavy and he could feel every stretch of plastic digging into him.

 

This was wrong. Why was he doing this? He shouldn't even be doing this.

 

…But, he could get day release. He could be free in three years. He could see his family, his parents- And shit, he'd gotten four extra months piled onto his sentence for that fight in the canteen, and that had technically been Patrick's fault. Seriously, who went around hanging onto stolen keycards? Everyone knew those types of things had to be hidden somewhere good.

 

And besides, when Patrick was rich, sitting on a pile of 9 million stolen dollars, he'd leave. He'd leave him, Andy, and everyone else that had helped him behind to rot. There'd be no Deus Ex Machina for _them_ , there'd be no fortune to pay _their_ bail.

 

That's what Joe kept telling himself, anyway.

 

But when he paced into the cell and looked over at the bunks, his heart sank.

 

Patrick was curled up in his bunk, eyes closed, breathing soft, and arms loose around a pillow. He'd seemed asleep, but when Joe stepped into the cell, his eyes opened blearily.

 

Y'know, if Patrick looked a little more menacing, this would've been a lot easier for Joe.

 

"Hey guys." Joe said as cheerily as he could, eyes flitting from Andy on one side of the room, to Patrick on the other.

He hopped up to his bunk, but leant his head over the side, cringing every time the wires dug into his ribs and stomach. Just as Joe opened his mouth to get a conversation out of Patrick, Frank strolled inside, features a little smug and almost amused.

 

Frank could be a good place to start a conversation, right? Joe didn't want to jump in with a question about the SIM card- he _was_ supposed to be inconspicuous here.

 

"How was the conjugal visit?" He tried, calling out to Frank, who only shrugged and huffed. "Decent."

He climbed up into his own bunk, laying back with a satisfied smile on his face. "The deliveries were better, though."

 

"And how's the smuggling business doing?" Joe chuckled. If he could just steer the conversation towards something money-related, he could bring Patrick into it.

Frank clicked his tongue, turning his head to look at Joe from where he lay. "Things are getting expensive."

 

That was it.

 

Joe chuckled again, nodding down at Patrick. "Just ask this guy for a loan. He's a millionaire, after all."

In a mere second, Patrick's head snapped up towards Joe, eyes wide and betrayed. It stung.

"Joe-" Patrick gaped and shook his head, but Joe only laughed guiltily and held his hands up. "Slipped out. Sorry, man."

 

"So, a question-" Frank interjected, leaning up on his forearms to catch Patrick in his view. "Where did Gerard even hide it?"

Patrick didn't seem keen on giving the answer Joe so desperately needed. So he decided to push it himself.

"In the greenhouse, right?" Joe raised an eyebrow at Patrick, before glancing up at Frank and catching Andy on the way down.

Andy sent him a furrowed brow, a flash of confusion crossing his eyes. Joe couldn't shake the feeling that he knew something was up.

 

Finally at breaking point, Patrick threw his hands up and exhaled sharply. "Look, I just found the SIM card, but I'm not a millionaire. I'm not gonna be a millionaire."

Joe gulped.

 

 

 

 

 

The room was silent as the everyone listened to the voices on the other end of the wire. Officers, cops, the Inspector and the Governor were all deadly silent the moment Patrick laid it all out for them to hear.

 

Pete was among them. Silent and slumped back in his chair, his ears burned with the voices.

He couldn't help but feel he'd done Patrick a disservice. He'd been the one to tell Dupre and the Governor about his friends, but- Shit, he'd been dragged into the office and asked, he couldn't have just _lied_.

"That's it." Dupre nodded triumphantly, looking around the room and almost breaking out into a smile. "Let's go get him."

 

 

 

 

 

 

Patrick glanced around the room nervously.

It was plain, concrete and cold, but what was truly making Patrick nervous, was the fact that the Governor and Inspector Dupre were staring at him from the other side of the desk they all sat around.

 

"Where's the SIM card?" Dupre said stoically, eyes never even raising from the papers on the desk as he clicked his pen.

 

Patrick swallowed deeply.

How did he know? Fuck, had someone told on him? He found it so hard to believe, only a handful of people knew.

Ryan would never spill- it benefited him if Patrick found the money, after all. Mikey and Dallon were loyal to Ryan. Frank didn't even know what was on the card. And he trusted Joe and Andy more than anyone in here.

 

"Come on. We got you confessing on the security cameras." Dupre said again, features cool and unaffected while Patrick was in the middle of losing his mind.

With a shaky gulp, he sighed out his answer. "I flushed it down the toilet."

 

The Inspector's eyes narrowed. "Why?"

 

"I was scared." Patrick shrugged, trying to sound and look as meek as possible. "A lot of people were after it."

 

"Did you see what was on it?"

 

"You have a phone?!" The Governor snapped, but Dupre only held up a hand to silence her. She didn't look pleased, but quietened down anyway.

 

"What was on the SIM card?"

 

"Pictures." He swallowed softly, "Of a forest."

The Inspector leant forwards, his eyes alight and the veins in his hands bulging. "What was in the forest?"

"They were pictures of a place, there was a rock." Patrick shrugged again, hating that he was having to dish out so many details. That money- that rock was his golden ticket, they weren't going to rob him of it. "They were a bunch of different angles."

 

Eyes narrowing again, Dupre straightened up in his seat. "Anything else?"

Patrick shook his head stiffly. "Nothing else."

 

There was silence. Patrick wasn't sure what was coming. Maybe he'd get a prolonged stay in solitary, maybe they'd extend his sentence, maybe they'd condemn him to a new cell.

Instead, when a voice finally came, it only asked a question.

 

"Could you recognize that rock?"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Freedom had a smell.

 

It was a ridiculous concept, a state of being having a scent- but it really did. Even with the handcuffs biting around his wrists, Patrick had never felt as calm as he did right there, feet planted on the grass and surrounded entirely by trees as far as the eye could see. Even though it was cold, even though the metal hurt his wrists- Patrick was happy.

 

Everything was quiet, including Patrick, only four people paced along in the group.

It was only Patrick, Inspector Dupre, his assistant- and on a request, Pete. And thankfully, none of them were extremely talkative today, so Patrick took every chance he could get to listen to the wind in the leaves and the birdsong. Compared to scraping metal, yelling and footsteps, it sounded like pure heaven.

 

"Stump."

 

Heaven fell back to earth, and Patrick looked up at the Inspector.

The tall man motioned his head at a small, jagged grey stone that sat between two mossy trees. "Is this it?" Patrick was quick to shake his head.

 

He sure as hell wasn't going to let them know when they found the actual rock, but for now, he could keep denying without a guilty conscience.

 

"Let's go north." Dupre quipped to his assistant, before quickly turning to Pete and Patrick behind them and motioning his head to make them follow.

 

They did, and Patrick tried to answer the questions as best he could, even when his teeth chattered a little too roughly.

 

Only a few moments later, and Pete was draping his jacket over Patrick's shoulders without a word.

 

"Thanks." Patrick smiled weakly, one hand tightening around the jacket. He tried to ignore the guilt that still plagued him every time he looked into those whiskey-brown eyes.

 

It only took a few more steps before Pete was glancing at him timidly. "I uh…I spoke to your dad." Pete said after a pregnant pause. "I promised him I'd uh- I'd make sure you were okay. Help you out. If you needed it."

 

His dad had asked Pete to look out for him. Patrick smiled sadly, shaking his head softly.

Typical; He always tried to smooth the path out for Patrick, no matter how rough or terrible it was.

 

"If you've got any issues, just, let me know, okay?"

Patrick blinked, counting the sheer amount of issues he had. Many were not fixable- even with Pete's efforts, but, now that he thought about it…

 

"Could you get me Xanax?" Patrick's eyes widened, voice snapping as his head jerked up with a sudden alertness that had been missing for days. "And, painkillers, maybe?"

Pete's brow furrowed, a confused wave crossing his features before he nodded slowly. "I'll speak to Reynolds."

 

Patrick held back a scoff. If only Pete knew.

 

They'd traveled a little further, Patrick had denied another two rocks, and Dupre was starting to look anxious as he stormed away from them. Pete and Patrick did their best to follow, despite the growing agitation.

 

"Why'd you need it?" Pete asked quietly a few second later. "Well, apart from the…uh…" He awkwardly stuttered, eyes flitting at the bruises.

 

"I can't sleep." Patrick chuckled sadly, face dropping along with his voice and eyes. "A lot of stuff to worry about."

 

"Like?" Pete hazarded, hands stuffing into his pockets. Patrick couldn't help but chuckle again. "Apart from being surrounded by people who want me dead or seriously injured?"

"Yeah, sure." Pete huffed softly, a tiny smile growing on his face to match the one Patrick sported.

 

Chewing on his lip, Patrick glanced up at Pete, finding a little comfort in the soft brown eyes that stared back at him. "My ex-girlfriend's pregnant."

 

The dark eyes widened. "Oh."

 

Patrick nodded slowly. "Yeah." He choked a sigh and ran his free hand over his face. "I…I don't know, it's just- it's complicated."

 

Mercifully, Pete didn't let the silence settle. "Not ready to be a dad?" He asked sympathetically, but Patrick's head only jerked up and he shook his head, something between a smile and a frown on his face. "Y'know, I've always wanted kids."

 

His shoulders fell a little. "But, I- Not like this." Patrick kicked at a tiny stone as they moved past it. "I can't be a real dad from prison. And, I don't want my kid growing up without a dad, I mean…"

 

He glanced at Pete and when he saw the blank expression on the man's face, he trailed off.

That conversation may have been a little too real for Pete. They didn't even know each other that well for Patrick to start laying his problems out on him.

 

But to his surprise, Pete didn't awkwardly try and change the topic. He held firm. "I mean, there's a silver lining. Kinda."

 

Patrick raised an eyebrow dubiously, despite the tiny smile still on his face. "And that is?"

Face scrunching up thoughtfully, Pete shrugged slowly. "You don't have to change diapers?"

 

Despite himself, Patrick laughed. It caught him off guard, he hadn't laughed that freely since everything had happened.

But reigning himself back in, Patrick shook his head and fought the grin off his face. "I just- I wanna be there for my kid, y'know?"

 

Pete nodded solemnly, "Yeah. I get it." He looked at Patrick, head tilting to the side. The smile on his face was stuck there for good. "You know, kids can fix lives, sometimes. They kinda, force you to get your shit together."

 

Patrick huffed, somewhere between amusement and sadness. "I think I'm beyond 'getting my shit together'."

"Oh I don't know." Pete chuckled, "You're not damned yet, Patrick."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Do you think he's watching us?"

 

"Yeah." David breathed, handing the shovel off to Kevin.

His breath was heavy and it weighed his lungs down, he braced his hands on his legs as he tried to funnel oxygen into them. He missed being young; He would have dug a crater in half an hour by himself, if he'd wanted to.

 

"And why are we digging in the wrong place, exactly?" Kevin huffed, digging the head of the shovel into the shallow hole again.

 

" _He_ doesn't know it's the wrong place." David straightened up, glancing around quickly to see if he could spot the accomplice.

He couldn't, and deep down, he hadn't expected to. He had a feeling this man was a professional.

 

"Right." Kevin gave a short breath, stabbing the shovel into the earth again. "But when the money doesn't show up, he'll come out of hiding place and kill us unless we tell him everything."

 

"We didn't have another choice." David's gaze swept the treeline, eyes squinting and widening every few seconds as he struggled to see. "If we turned the car around, he would've realized we'd seen him, and well- plainly, we would've been fucked."

 

Finally giving up on spotting the man, David dropped his gaze to Kevin and took the shovel again, giving the younger man a momentary break. "Besides, I don't think he's stupid." He buried the shovel, considerable violence behind the stab. "Killing us is just going to make things worse for him."

"You sure about that?" Kevin raised an eyebrow, and his dad could only sigh out, hoping his son would finally follow the plan and leave the complaints for another, less dangerous day.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Patrick saw it.

 

Almost perfectly round, pale, thick with moss. The boulder sat in the grass innocently, and Patrick couldn't help but stare longingly at the dry soil under it.

9 million fucking dollars were under there. And only a fraction of it would free him from Colbert.

 

"Stump."

 

Patrick looked up at the Inspector, heart racing as the inevitable question came.

Dupre nodded down at the rock, "Is this it?"

 

Patrick needed to get out of prison.

His brother, his dad- they were doing everything they could to get him out. And god knows he needed to, Elisa was pregnant and that child needed him. They needed a real dad, not a prisoner that they'd only see once a month and would barely remember.

 

With a quiet exhale, Patrick shook his head. "That's not it."

The second of silence felt like an hour, but eventually, Dupre exhaled and shook his head, pacing away with urgency in his steps.

Following behind, Patrick kept his eyes forward and tried to calm they way his heart raced in his chest. He'd definitely gotten better at lying.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fuck, these guys were taking forever.

 

Brendon dropped his cheek into his hand, blinking slowly as he watched the two men digging. It was as boring as watching paint dry, but he had to keep an eye on them.

The second the money came up, he'd have to get down there before they could make a break to their car. If this turned into a car chase, things would get a lot messier and _not_ killing them might prove harder.

 

Honestly, he didn't understand why Ryan insisted on sparing them. He was always so finicky about these things.

 

Brendon sighed violently and scratched at the back of his head, glaring down at the two figures. Y'know what? Fuck this. He was finished, he'd been here for too long.

 

He pulled his handgun from his pocket and cocked it, exhaling deeply to calm himself down. Shoot one in the leg, scare the other one. That was all they needed, a good scare, and they'd leave this whole situation be. But he needed to be surgical about this.

There were two of them, and he was sure the old one had a gun. The son wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed, but he'd managed to get away last time. That couldn't happen again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"What is _he_ doing?" Eyes narrowed, Dupre squinted at the man that was crouched by the tree roots a few feet away.

Technically, loitering in the forest wasn't illegal, but the man seemed to be watching something, his arms were out as if he were holding a gun, but Dupre couldn't see what was in his hands.

 

Unasked, his assistant paced forwards with a furrowed brow, hands twitching for his own gun while his footsteps rang quiet on the soft grass. "Hey, you!" He called, chin tipping upwards and eyes locking on the man.

 

The man jumped and glanced over his shoulder with wide, panicked eyes. As soon as he saw them, his eyes fell closed in exasperation. Dupre's assistant insisted, however. "Stand up!"

 

The man didn't move, his shoulders only tensed.

 

All it took was one glance between Dupre and his assistant, and they both drew their handguns and aimed them. Maybe it was extreme, but the man's reactions had been odd. There was something off about him. "I said stand up!" His assistant yelled out, his aim shaking for a moment.

 

Then, the man froze.

He slowly made a move to stand up, but before either of them could even react-

 

Bang.

 

Dupre's assistant fell to the ground, too shocked to move as his shirt quickly stained with the red that was bleeding from his abdomen.

 

 

 

 

 

Both David and Kevin froze, heads jerking up at the loud, nearby sound of a gunshot. Kevin looked at his dad with wide eyes and a pale face. "Did you hear that?"

David opened his mouth to answer, but before he could even formulate a word-

 

Four more gunshots made the birds fly from the trees in a panic.

 

"Move." David grabbed his son by the bicep and pulled him away, urging him to hurry as they cantered back to the car.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Patrick was frozen.

Call it shock, call it fear- but he couldn't move a muscle.

 

Inspector Dupre was crumpled on the floor, one bullet in his arm and the other one in his leg. His gun had fallen out of his hand, and he was still.

Patrick's eyes shakily moved over to his younger assistant. He was silent, his eyes were open and dull, and his stomach was covered in a wet, red blossom.

 

Then Patrick looked at Pete.

 

Patrick couldn't see his face, his head was turned away from him. He was completely still too, and Patrick wasn't sure if his chest was moving or not.

 

All Patrick could do was stand there, breathing in stuttered gasps and helplessly staring at Pete and the others. The stranger that had done this was long gone, Patrick had watched him disappear through the trees running. Dupre had only managed to fire at him once before a bullet had found his leg, and he'd stumbled to the ground- joining his assistant.

 

Pete went down soon after. He'd made a strangled sound and he'd crashed into the ground, writhing for only a moment before he'd…stopped.

 

His heart beat was hammering so loudly that Patrick could hear it in his ears, he could feel it in his fingertips, and he felt as though if he moved an inch, he'd throw up.

Trembling, he glanced around at the three, crumpled figures that slouched in the grass.

 

They were bloody, quiet and at the sight of them, the sound of Patrick's pulse disappeared. And all he could hear was birdsong.

 

 


	7. Fourteen Days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so side note, did anyone else watch Eurovision yesterday I'm still shook
> 
> (I'm also v sorry this took so long, I had two french exams this week uhhhhhIthinkIfailedeverythinguhhhhh)

_Patrick ran._

_His breath left him in punched out breaths, heart pounding, breath frantic, and feet trying to keep traction as they pushed into the damp grass. His lungs ached, his legs burned, and the thuds of his footfalls were heavy as he bounded forwards. Darting through the trees, his vision blurred and all he could smell was iron._

 

_When the handgun almost slipped from his red fingers, he stumbled to a stop with a helpless groan, knees crashing into the uneven ground._

_He planted one hand on the earth and wiped his eyes with his left forearm. He tried squinting upwards, but everything was green and brown and blurry. But shit- he had to keep going, they were counting on him, if he didn't hurry they'd-_

 

_"Stop right there!"_

 

_The words dropped on his ears and reality crashed back into place._

_Patrick froze up, shoulders clenching and eyes quickly widening as he realized his situation. Then the same voice came again, only more demanding and much lower this time._

 

_"Police! Hands up!"_

 

_Much quicker to respond that time, he lifted his hands. One splayed wide, but the other still stubbornly gripped the handgun._

 

_He craned his neck to watch the two cops behind him, he noticed the way their eyes stuck to the weapon and everything surrounding it._

_Patrick spared a glance down at himself and he couldn't stop the grimace that rippled onto his face._

 

_Sticky redness covered everything from his palms to his fingers, and there was so much of it that the grip of the gun was stained._

_His uniform- from the chest to the sleeves were smudged with the same red, and Patrick knew for a fact that his face matched. He could smell the iron under his nose, he could feel the tightness on the skin of his cheek._

 

_If this didn't look incriminating, he didn't know what did._

 

_It's a recipe for disaster. He's a fucking criminal after all. By all rights, there should be a bullet in his forehead right now._

_There were no gunshots however, instead, the taller of the two cops only tipped his chin up and barked another order._

 

_"Turn around."_

 

_Patrick wasted no time in obliging._

_He moved slowly and kept his hands up and spread. He was going to give them zero motive to shoot. Even though his heartbeat felt brutal in his chest and his mouth felt drier than the Sahara desert in summer, he was determined to get through this as quickly as possible._

 

_"Put the gun down." One of the cops ordered and Patrick couldn't help but hesitate. They didn't understand, he just needed to explain; He knew this looked like the worst case scenario, but the truth was worse. He needed the gun, they'd need theirs-_

 

_"Drop the gun." The order came again, but it was quickly shadowed with: "Hands on your head."_

 

_Letting his eyes fall shut and letting out a frustrated breath, Patrick tossed the gun to his side and complied. He laced his fingers and his palms pressed onto the flat of his skull, all while his leg started bouncing impatiently._

_Arrest him, interrogate him or just plain shoot him- Patrick hoped they'd be quick about it. Even if they didn't know it yet, they didn't have much time to lose._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Four, two."

 

A second later, the loud blare of the buzzer rang through the room and not long after, the bars slid open noisily with grating metal scrapes.

 

Patrick didn't spare a glance back at the prison guard as he moved forwards, making a calm beeline for the visitor's room. When he reached the frosted glass window, he moved past it and straight towards the door.

 

It wasn't like he was scared of seeing his family anymore, he didn't need five minutes of panicking and three of rehearsal. He'd more or less accepted his situation and he expected them to, too.

 

He'd expected the realization to creep up on him. He'd expected it to be gradual.

He'd imagined it to be slow and horrible, he'd imagined it eating him alive from the inside out over the course of a month, maybe a year- if he was lucky.

But it had been like the flip of a switch instead, and it definitely hadn't eaten him alive.

 

He could still remember the moment so clearly, it had only been a week ago.

 

It had been a hazy, chilly morning, he remembered how the bathroom tiles trapped the cold. Shoulder to shoulder with other inmates, he'd spat toothpaste into the sink and looked up at himself in the mirror, and that's when he realized it.

 

The scratch on the bridge of his nose, the dark bruises ruining pale skin, the deep split on his bottom lip, the tangled mess of blond hair that seemed darker- interrupted by the occasional, stress-induced grey hair.

The obscenely bright yellow of his uniform, the lazily tied, stolen bandages that still curled around his wrist and his neck, the number stitched over his heart.

 

It was the first time he realized he wasn't the same. He wasn't the same person that had entered Colbert all those months ago with shaky knees and wide eyes.

Somehow, Patrick felt that what he was now, was irreversible. Even if he was released next Monday- he was pretty sure he couldn't go back to how he'd been before.

Maybe the feelings were premature, it hadn't even been a year- but that didn't stop the bundle of acceptance, horror and fear in the pit of his stomach.

 

It also made him wonder how he'd be after seven years in here. Would he be another person? Unrecognisable to everyone but his mother? Or would _she_ even struggle to recognise him? Maybe he'd be scarred, disfigured, or worst case scenario: dead. It seemed unlikely now, but he couldn't have predicted any of _this_ in the first place.

 

The moment he entered the mostly empty visitor's room, his eyes landed on his Dad and Kevin.

The frenetic looks they spared every guard that wandered a little too close almost made Patrick chuckle, and a small smile twitched onto his face as he walked towards them.

 

When they saw him, they leapt up to hug him bone-crushingly tightly. One at a time and all tension, Patrick could see the anxiety coming off them like heat from a radiator.

He peeled away from them before any of the guards could bitch or interject. Sliding into the seat opposite them, there was hardly a peaceful second before the inquisition began.

 

"How are you, Patrick?" His dad said urgently, hands half way across the table in a hopeful, hopeless reach for his youngest son. "It's been so long, but they wouldn't let us see you. We have to talk about-"

 

"How's mom?" Patrick cut him off easily.

It had been a while since his mom had come to see him, and the last time hadn't exactly ended on a great note.

She'd started out by regurgitating twenty documentaries-worth of the inhumane things that happened in prison, and Patrick had had to lie through his teeth to convince her those were played up for shock factor. He was still pretty sure she hadn't believed a word; she'd always had a knack for knowing when he was lying.

 

"She went to see her sister." His dad said with a spitfire blink, visibly taken aback.

Patrick couldn't understand his confusion. He didn't think being curious about his mom was so odd, but he left it all unsaid and changed the topic to something a lot more important.

 

Leaning forwards on his forearms, Patrick's bottom ribs pushed against the table edge. "Dad, I'm pretty sure this conversation is being recorded."

His dad's brow furrowed and he shot a confused look at Kevin, who's face all but matched. Patrick held back a sigh and a roll of his eyes; They just didn't understand.

 

Since the…situation at the forest, Patrick had been watched and monitored at all hours of the day, and it had been irritating, to say the least.

Every time he turned a corner, paced into a room or even sat in the corner of the courtyard, there was always a fucking guard staring at him as though he was going to disappear any second.

It was hell. It made him paranoid. It made his skin itch every time he came face to face with navy blue uniforms, ID cards and combat boots.

 

His dad and his brother still stared back at him with gormless, blank looks on their faces, but Patrick pressed on and did his best to ignore them.

 

"I was at the shootout in the woods." His eyes darted up to the security camera, gaze sticking to the blinking light.

The lens was pointed at him like a spear and Patrick could feel a lump in his throat, he could almost feel the stare of the person on the other side of it.

 

"There was a situation." Tearing his eyes away from the black mirror, "So they took me in for identification, and-"

 

"Patrick." It was his dad's turn to cut him off. The older man gave him a small weak smile, and his eyes pressed into slits, his voice was more sincere than Patrick had ever heard it.

 

"How are you?"

 

Patrick tried to smile. He could feel it didn't reach his eyes, so he tried squinting them. "I'm fine."

Eyes dulling a little, his dad opened his mouth again, clearly not buying a word, but Patrick beat him to the punch with a shake of his head and a disapproving stare. "Dad, you look tired. You need more sleep."

 

The renewed glances his dad and brother fired at each other didn't go unnoticed. Besides, Patrick could almost see the gears working double time in their brains.

Patrick leant back in his chair, pressing the blades of his shoulders back into it. "Really, don't worry about me. I'm fine. Believe me."

 

His brother tried to break the silence first, voice slow and syllables a little slurred. "Patrick, are you sure-"

"I just- I wanna wait for a retrial, and I want to defend myself." Patrick nodded curtly, dropping his hands flat on the table committally. "I wanna stop with all the crazy stuff."

 

Raising his eyes, he took a long stare at his dad, before sparing a glance at his brother. "I want you to stop too. It's not worth it."

His dad's mouth dropped open, intent on protesting, but Patrick was quicker once again. "Understand?" He whispered, eyes serious and firm- but still flashing up to the security camera every few seconds.

 

He knew the request was out of the blue. He knew they wouldn't be happy about it. He knew they'd worked hard to get to where they were now. But, after everything Patrick had seen…well, he wasn't about to tangle his family in the middle of it. They were better off staying on the straight and narrow and going back to normal, the sooner the better.

 

It was mildly surprising when neither man started arguing back, but the lack of an answer left Patrick uneasy.

The feeling that they would ignore what he'd said hung in the air, so, keeping his voice steady, he petitioned his dad again. "Dad, do you understand?"

 

It felt fake when his dad smiled and nodded, "Don't worry, son."

Patrick _knew_ it was fake when he smiled back. "Thank you, Dad."

 

With another quick nod, his dad raced to change to topic. "Anyway, uh-" Their eye contact snapped away as his dad ducked his head, "We're seeing the lawyer later, he has some news for us, apparently."

Patrick's interest, mildly peaked, made him raise an eyebrow. "News?" His dad only shook his head quickly, mouth straightening into a tight smile. "I'll let you know what it's about as soon as I can."

 

His curiosity quickly settled. Patrick gave a stilted nod, moving to push his chair back with the full intention to hurry the meeting along. The legs of his chair had barely scraped the ground when Kevin lurched forwards.

 

"Hang on- Patrick?"

 

Kevin's brow was deeply knitted and his eyes shone with a thousand accusations and arguments. The moment he started speaking though, it all fell away and Kevin only looked worried for the hundredth time today. "Are you okay? Have you had any problems around here?"

 

Patrick smiled tightly and nodded, ignoring the lump in his throat as he lied to his brother. "I'm okay, Kevin. I swear."

 

 

 

 

 

Joe was restless. Two fucking weeks, and he was still jumping at every shadow and losing sleep every night. It wasn't fair, it wasn't normal- but Joe couldn't squash it; He was scared.

 

He'd made a deal with the cops, he'd worn a wire, he'd sold out his friend- he'd broken every basic rule of prison and for what? The Governor was taking her sweet time putting him on day release and with every passing day, he was starting to think that she never would.

 

So, in an effort to calm himself down, Joe was pacing the entire length of the courtyard for the twelfth time that day.

The day was warmer than usual, the sun bore down on the back of his neck and he couldn't help but squint at the brightness every time he tried to look around.

He had half a mind to go back to his cell; Stone walls, concrete floors and metal beds were all freezing and he could use freezing right now.

 

…On the other hand, he'd been trying to avoid his cell for good reason. Funnily enough, Frank was the only cellmate he could stand to be around anymore.

 

But Patrick- God, he could barely look Patrick in the eyes anymore.

He had an irrational fear that too much eye contact would somehow make Patrick a mindreader. And besides, the well of guilt in his chest still choked him whenever he tried small talk, he swore he could still feel the cutting weight of the wire on him.

 

But then there was Andy. And that was a thousand times worse, because Joe was sure that _he_ _knew_.

Now, he wasn't sure how Andy might've found out, but whenever that stare fell on him, Joe felt like 'traitor' was branded across his forehead.

 

That wasn't who he was. Normally, he was loyal, he was a decent guy. A slight lapse of judgement didn't inherently make him a traitor. At least, he hoped that's how it worked.

 

"Joe?"

 

Joe jumped like a startled cat. His eyes snapped open and he tensed up, swivelling wildly towards to the voice behind him.

 

Well fuck.

 

Andy stood there, brow furrowed, nose wrinkled, eyes narrowed in confusion- and thanks to the blinding sun. His inked hands were stuffed in his pockets and his head was slightly tilted, all while he stared at Joe like he was an oddity at a museum.

 

Trying to breathe his way out of what had almost been a heart attack, Joe did his best to stay _casual_.

 

Turning to the other man fully, he let out a short exhale and tried what he hoped looked like a real smile.

Andy blinked add him once again, face still contorted in confusion and a vague shadow of suspicion that made Joe's breath quicken.

 

He knew. He fucking knew- Joe didn't know how he'd figured it out, but he had. He could see it in his eyes, somehow he'd-

 

"Can I talk to you?"

 

Where Joe would've usually made a snarky comment, he could only muster a quick nod while he chewed on the inside of his lips right now.

Andy motioned his head towards one of the corners of the courtyard that was draped in shadow, and moved off towards it.

 

Okay. Joe just had to keep his cool.

Andy wasn't a mind reader. He didn't know what Joe had done. It was a secret, and everything was perfectly fi-

 

"Joe, are you coming?"

 

Joe jolted out of his thoughts to see Andy staring at him with crinkled, confused blue eyes once again. "Yeah- Yeah, sorry man." With a grimace that was more to himself, Joe hurried after the other man, not being able to bring himself to look up from the floor until Andy spoke again.

 

"Alright, so…I uh- I wanted to talk to you about…"

With a pained look on his face, Joe glanced upwards to see Andy looking back at him, still seemingly mildly confused, "You uh- You were acting weird the other day."

 

Joe felt like all the air had left his lungs.

He tore his eyes away from the blue stare and glued his gaze to the rocky floor instead, settling for scraping at the dirt with his shoe instead.

 

"Joe." Andy sighed again, Joe could see his arms crossing in the corner of his eye. "Can we talk about it?"

 

Brain as mixed as his signals, Joe shook his head and shrugged all at once- eyes still stubbornly on the loose dirt under his sole. "I don't what you're talking about." He knew how weak and petulant his excuse sounded, it made his grimace deepen.

 

"The other day- with Patrick and Frank."

 

Joe's eyes clenched closed and he couldn't stop the way his shoulders bunched up. Shit. Shit, his intuition had been right. Andy knew.

 

"You uh…You told Frank about the money. You remember that, right?"

 

Joe tried another shrug, despite his paralysed, tensed shoulder blades, "I don't know what you mean, dude."

 

There was silence for a moment, but Joe only busied himself with drawing absent circles in the dirt with the toe of his shoe. There was no way in hell he was going to look up and see that _knowing_ look on Andy's face; That was his pure kryptonite right now-

 

"I think you do know what I mean."

 

Joe's inhale was cut short by a shocked cough that attacked his chest. He pressed a fist to his mouth and soon enough, he was staring Andy in the eye again.

Although Andy was truly the opposite of danger, there was something about crossed arms, a scowl and a furrowed brow that really made panic flare up in Joe.

 

Joe's Adam's apple bobbed uselessly, his eyes flickering all over the place to avoid the accusing blue stare. Faced with _that_ , blinded by the sun and with the feeling of his heart pounding in his throat, Joe could hardly help it when the start of a confession slipped off his tongue. "I- Listen, I did what I did because-"

His teeth clamped down on his tongue like a vice in an attempt to stop himself, Joe swore he could taste iron.

 

"What did you do?" Andy wasn't deaf or slow by any standards. His eyes had grown wide, his arms had dropped, he'd taken a step forwards and Joe felt like all of this was slowly killing him.

Backing into the corner fully now, Joe shook his head stubbornly. "I just- It's nothing, it's not important-"

 

"Joe. Tell me."

 

It was almost an order and Joe felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He couldn't actually tell Andy the truth, it would be a disaster-

 

"You know you can trust me, right?"

 

Joe let out the exhale he didn't even know he'd been holding as guilt started to replace fear.

Ever so slowly, he peeled his head up and met Andy's eyes with scrunched up features. "You're gonna hate me, man."

 

Instantly, Andy huffed out an incredulous sigh. He shook his head, eyes softening and head tilting to the left once again, "I'm not gonna _hate_ you, dude. I could never-" He stopped himself with a shake of his head, leaning to nudge Joe in the shoulder with a small smile. "Don't be dumb, okay? You can tell me anything."

 

Joe only hummed and shook his head again, almost growling at the upturn in the corners of his mouth.

Although he wanted to be stubborn, he could feel his resolve wearing away with every stare, smile and word. It was annoying, frankly; Andy was _directly_ _ruining_ his plan to keep all of the wire business a secret.

 

"Nah, I really think you're gonna hate me." Joe crossed his arms tightly, "You're probably gonna lecture me too."

 

Andy rolled his eyes.

 

"Joe."

 

Joe couldn't have guessed that would be his last straw, but a second later he was weakly throwing his hands up. "I- Look, it's complicated, but-"

He looked up to meet the other man's eyes and his throat constricted the moment they met.

 

He didn't know what was possessing him, but the words fell from his mouth and he could barely stop them. "I might've been wearing a…"

Andy raised his brow, wide eyes blinking patiently, "A…?"

With a twisting stomach, a brutal heartbeat and a final exhale, Joe looked Andy straight in the eyes.

 

"A wire."

 

For a moment, Joe was convinced time had frozen.

Andy's face was stuck still, his eyes were unblinking and even his breath seemed to stop. Joe would've preferred to stay there, completely still, both of them in silence, than ever hear what Andy said next.

 

"You were wearing a wire?"

His voice was soaked in horror, anger and betrayal all at once, and Joe couldn't help but drop his head again.

 

"But- Why? Why were you wearing a wire?" The harder emotions had faded, Andy only sounded confused and outraged now, but Joe could still feel the guilt eating him from the inside out. "The police- Or, this detective guy asked me to do it."

 

"But why?"

 

Joe's brow scrunched up and he hazarded a look up at the other man. "…Because, they wanted a confession about the SIM card."

"No." That old anger crept onto Andy's features again. "I mean, _why_?"

 

Joe clicked his tongue and tossed his hands up again, "I- Dude, see? I told you you were gonna get mad-"

 

"I'm not mad!" Andy barked, brow so knitted and eyes so narrowed that it looked painful. Joe scoffed uselessly and motioned a hand at him wildly, "Well, you're- yelling!"

 

The other man took a breath for a moment. His eyes fell closed, his shoulders dropped and his head followed not long after. Andy pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers, voice already exasperated as he tried again, "Joe. Why would you even-"

 

"For fuck's sake- They offered me day release, alright?" Joe sighed the words and felt the weight drop from his shoulders with them. But then again, the longer Andy looked at him with those disappointed eyes, the more the knot in his stomach twisted.

 

In an attempt to justify himself, both to _himself_ and to Andy, Joe did his best to keep his voice steady and his train of thought even steadier. "I just- I wanted to go home. Even if it was just during the day. My-"

He exhaled harshly, irritated by the pit in his stomach and the prickling in his eyes. "My parents still live in Florida, dude. I- I haven't seen them for like, eight months."

 

"So, you were going to take a bus to Florida, on day release?" There was a quiet sigh from Andy, "You do know there's no way in hell they'd let you do that?"

Most definitely rubbed the wrong way, Joe's mouth twisted into a scowl and his head snapped upwards. "It's a step forwards, isn't it? It's better than nothing."

 

Andy fell silent again for a moment, shaking his head as he shifted from one foot to the other.

It hadn't been long into the conversation before Joe had realized something: His reasons for doing what he did were actually pretty solid.

 

Sure, betraying your friends sucks, but not seeing your parents for close to a year sucks even more. Why should he have thrown away such a good opportunity? Joe had gotten in so much trouble over the years that his sentence had been drawn out _considerably_ \- and shit, one of those times had been Patrick's fault.

 

Joe tried to ground himself and tie himself to those principles as he watched Andy pace the tiny distance in front of him. He needed to be unshakeable in his priorities here, he had his reasons and he wasn't letting Andy make him feel bad for them.

 

But that was easier said than done when the next thing Andy said was: "Patrick could've died in that forest, Joe."

 

As a tsunami of guilt flooded all the way from his toes to his throat, Joe clenched his eyes shut and exhaled sharply, "But he didn't."

 

"But he could've."

 

Andy was sounding suspiciously like his conscience had these past two weeks.

Joe shook the guilt away for a moment and opened his eyes again, but he wasn't strong enough to lift his gaze from the floor. "Patrick's alive. The cops have their confession. And I'm going to be put on day release. Everything worked out perfectly."

 

"Perfectly?" Andy huffed after a small pause, a cruel kind of bemusement settled behind the word. "Is Patrick waking up screaming from nightmares 'perfect'?"

Joe held his ground. That wasn't what he'd meant and Andy knew it perfectly well.

He- more than any of them, knew all about the way Patrick jolted out of sleep these days. Patrick yelling himself awake at 3am, screaming like he was being murdered or chased and then proceeding to hyperventilate for a few minutes, was also to blame for Joe's sleep deprivation.

It wasn't like he could blame the guy; If _he'd_ been hunted down in the woods by a serial killer that would've been the end of sleep for him.

 

"Did you hear about the three guys that got shot?" Andy wasn't finished and he continued with the same irritated filter over his voice. "D'you think it's perfect for them?"

 

When he'd first heard about that, Joe had had a never-ending chill running down his spine. That haunting thought of 'Was it my fault?' lingered in his head no matter what he did.

Although _they_ made the choice to go out into the forest, if Joe had refused the wire, they wouldn't have been there on that particular day. Things might've been different. They could've been.

 

No.

 

Joe had to be stubborn.

He wasn't going to let that guilty monster claw its way up his throat. He had his reasons, he had his priorities straight. His family, his parents and seeing them again was more important to him.

He could grieve over Patrick's nightmares and those three men for a century, it wouldn't change a thing.

 

Joe clenched his jaw and raised his eyes to Andy. The man wasn't even looking at him anymore, he was leaning against the wall, head up and eyes blank as they stared out at the courtyard. He'd given up searching for an answer after Joe's unwavering silence, apparently.

 

"You know what?" Joe pushed off the corner he stood in with a foot and took a step forwards. He turned to Andy, arms still crossed and brow still down as he watched the other man's blue eyes flick towards him blankly.

"Fuck you and your guilt-tripping." Joe couldn't stop the scowl twisting his mouth up, "I got my fucking ribs broken for him- I went to _solitary_ for him." His skin crawled at the memory.

He could still remember the dusty smell of the solitary cell blending with the strong iron smell that poured from his own nostrils. That had been a long week.

 

"And- I don't know if you know this, but he hasn't done shit for me." Joe exhaled, teeth clamping down on the fleshy inside of his cheek. He wasn't even sure if that was true or not, but he didn't care; He had something he needed to stand by, he needed to stay resolute. There was no room for doubt.

 

Andy was still staring at him. Pale blue eyes were blank and his features were unreadable. There were no traces of anger, betrayal or irritation anymore, _nothing itself_ had taken its place.

But when he finally spoke, it was like the final dagger in his gut, the calm string of words defeated Joe worse than shouts or insults ever could.

Andy simply shook his head softly and raked his eyes over Joe's face, his voice was quieter than he'd ever heard it. "I really thought you were better than that."

 

 

 

 

 

Ryan leant forwards, bracketing his forearms on his thighs and keeping his eyes steadily on the TV screen. He blocked out the chattering from the other inmates that sat around in the messy rows of plastic chairs, all his attention was on the news report that played out in front of him instead.

 

"Two weeks have passed since the shootout at Breton forest." The reporter was stood up straight and narrow, everything about her screamed 'professional' and 'neat'. Ryan irrationally hated her a little.

"The investigation is still ongoing." She continued, barely sparing a nod back at the police-tape covered scene behind her. "But so far, no further major breaks have been made."

 

The corners of Ryan's mouth couldn't help but twitch upwards.

Ever since the news had broken about what exactly had happened during the police's little expedition, Ryan had been combing through every new headline and article.

Every morning, he'd wake up with a panicky kind of fear in his stomach, every morning, he was convinced Brendon had been caught.

Then, every evening, he'd watch the news or steal a newspaper, and every evening, his fears would be put to rest.

 

"-main suspect at the moment seems to be Brendon Urie-" The reporter reeled the words off calmly, but 'calm' was the opposite of how Ryan felt.

Brendon might not have been caught, but that didn't mean he was off scot-free. There was a witness, after all.

Y'know, Ryan was really trying to get along with Patrick. He'd tried to make a deal with him, he'd tried his best to be…less antagonistic. But when the rumours that Patrick had been found running around with a handgun had surfaced, and when two weeks had passed without a word from Brendon, Ryan had admittedly began to feel uneasy.

 

"They won't get him." Ryan muttered quietly to himself, focused on breathing deeply as he watched the reporter on the screen coaxing questions out of one of the cops at the scene.

 

He had to stop worrying. There was no way Patrick had somehow gotten the upper hand on Brendon. His husband was fine, he was probably just laying low for now. He could take care of himself. It'd be fine.

Ryan nodded to himself softly and leant back in his chair, sparing a glance around at the rest of the room.

 

There weren't many prisoners keen on watching the news, apparently.

Only two seemed to be paying attention, while one was watching blankly and the others were talking amongst themselves. Ryan wondered if not having to constantly worry was _nice_ ; Ryan had an image- a _reputation_ to maintain, but that didn't mean he didn't have his fair share of sleepless nights.

 

Just as he moved to give his attention back to the television screen, none other than Patrick paced into the room nonchalantly.

Ryan watched him send his glances around the room before slumping into one of the chairs at the back of the room, and he couldn't help the small scowl that crept onto his face.

 

No, there was no way _he_ got the better of Brendon.

With another confirming shake of his head, Ryan turned back to the screen.

 

The reporter had moved away from the slightly flustered cop now, and she was pacing back along the boundary of police tape.

"The area has been searched as thoroughly as expected," Her eyes still bored into the camera, directly into every person watching. "But there have been no signs of the 9 million dollars, that police had been searching for that day."

 

 

 

 

  
  
  
_Patrick's head snapped around as the sound of rustling leaves met his ears._

_Eyes wide and breathing still on edge, he still breathed a hitched sigh of relief at what he saw._

 

_Inspector Dupre was still alive._

 

_The man groaned and struggled out a weak cough, one hand vainly hovering back and forth over the two bullet wounds in his right leg and left arm._

_Although the voice in his head urged him to help, Patrick could barely move, it felt like he was magnetized to the floor._

 

_He settled for watching silently instead._

_The Inspector grimaced and with a hard clench of his eyes, he managed to shift back onto his elbows. Through sheer will alone, he pushed himself back until his back was flush against the nearest tree trunk, and only then, he breathed out a loud, agony-ridden sigh._

 

_Patrick felt useless as he watched in complete silence, but not long after, the sound of a weak cough made his head to the right._

 

_It was Pete. Patrick could hear his ragged breathing from where he stood._

_He was curled in on himself and his head was bowed, and although Patrick's thoughts screamed at him to go and help- he was still frozen over._

 

_"Patrick, agh-" Dupre struggled the words out and Patrick could only turn his head back, watching the way the Inspector caged his fingers over the bleeding wound in his trembling arm._

 

_Nodding towards his assistant, Dupre's voice trembled as he spoke, "Check him."_

_His voice sounded like a dull echo in his ears, but as Patrick looked over at the assistant- who lay face up and still in the stifled grass, the sight was like a slap in the face._

 

_A sudden burst of alertness woke him and Patrick stumbled towards Dupre's assistant and stepped over him, all with wide eyes and a new kind of shakiness in his hands._

_He crouched down on the left side the man, teeth abusing the insides of his cheeks as the realization that this was probably a corpse crept up on him. A shiver ran down his spine._

 

_The assistant's eyes were glassy, his mouth was parted and his shirt was soaked with red. He didn't seem to be moving and Patrick couldn't see the swell of breathing in his chest._

 

_Although it seemed hopeless, he pressed his hands to the man's neck, searching for a pulse under his fingers. Thanks to the awkward position, the handcuffs dug into his wrists painfully, but Patrick still tried to persevere._

_Feeling nothing but stillness at the man's neck, he decided to check his wrists instead._

 

_He dropped his hands and held the assistant's left wrist with one hand, while he searched for the beat of a pulse with the other. Nothing._

_With a sharp exhale, Patrick tried the right wrist, despite intuition telling him it was useless. It was still there too._

 

_As a last ditch effort, Patrick lowered his head and pressed his ear to where his heart would be._

_He bore down, grimacing at the overwhelming smell of iron under his nose and at the wetness on his cheek._

_Patrick clenched his eyes shut, blocked his other ear, strained to listen, but the result was the same: Silence._

 

_Drawing upwards slowly and with a heavy feeling in his chest, Patrick raised his head to Dupre._

_He watched the Inspector making an improvised tourniquet for his leg out of his belt, brow furrowed and teeth bared as his breath labored._

 

_"He's dead." Patrick's voice wavered and the Inspector's head snapped upwards instantly._

_His eyes blanked for a moment and dropped to the still assistant at Patrick's knees. His mouth hung open and his shoulders drooped, but it wasn't long before he pulled himself back together with a hiss of 'Fuck'._

 

_From his new left, Patrick heard a groan and his head whipped around, his sensitive ears pricking._

_Pete's face was contorted in a scrunched grimace and he was pressing the side of it into the ground. His mouth was parted in the small, pained noises and one of his hands dug into the wound below his ribs._

 

_With newly shaky knees, Patrick pushed himself back upwards and stepped over towards Pete cautiously._

_Eyes raking him up and down, Patrick felt the vice-like grip around his throat tighten even more. This was real. This was actually happening- a part of him couldn't even begin to understand that._

 

_He knelt down next to Pete, laying a careful hand on his shoulder as he dipped his head, trying to squint at the injury. Even through the dark uniform sweater, he could see it clearly._

 

_It was just below his right set of ribs, he assumed it had just missed his lung- seeing as Pete wasn't coughing up blood or dead yet._

_The more Pete's fingers pushed down, the more blood seeped out between the gaps. It came too quickly, thick and so dark it was almost black as it hit the ground._

 

_"Pete's hurt." Patrick's voice was a rasp as he glanced back up at the Inspector. There was real panic twisting in the pit of his stomach; He wasn't sure he could handle watching Pete- watching anyone die that closely, that personally._

 

_"Check if there's an exit wound." The Inspector called immediately, that same suppressed panic in his voice too._

 

_Determined to stay calm, Patrick nodded firmly and leant over the folded man. Searching for an exit wound efficiently wasn't exactly easy with bound wrists and watering eyes._

 

_But, through raking his fingers and matching positions, it wasn't long before his hand pressed down on it. The moment he did, Pete spat an agonizing yelp that made Patrick flinch._

_He pulled himself together quickly, rocking back down to his knees and pressing hand to Pete's shoulder, tilting his head and staring him in the eye. "It's okay, you're okay- just hang on, alright?"_

 

_Through a shaky breath, Pete stared back at him and nodded sluggishly. Patrick was thankful he still had some recognition left, even if his eyes were so dull they seemed to be glass._

 

_Patrick looked up at the Inspector again. His leg and arm shook with occasional tremors, but he was still holding himself up well._

_"There's an exit wound." He panted, before glancing back down at Pete and adding a nervous afterthought. "That's good, right?"_

 

_"It's good." Dupre gave a quick nod, nose wrinkling as his hand fled down to his leg. "He'll just need a few stitches."_

_Patrick exhaled gratefully and squeezed Pete's shoulder, the first inkling of calmness settling in his bones._

 

_Until Dupre spoke again._

 

_The Inspector leant his head back against the tree, his prominent Adam's apple bobbing for a moment. "But, if nobody finds us, he'll bleed out in about twenty minutes."_

 

_Patrick's eyes shot wide and all the peace shattered, the way a sledgehammer destroys a mirror in one fell swoop. He was stuck between staring blankly at the Inspector and holding onto Pete's arm like it was a lifebuoy, completely unsure of what he should do._

 

_He could only watch blankly as the Inspector tugged his phone out of his pocket, face scrunching into a pained grimace as he pressed it to his ear._

 

_With a steady exhale, Patrick leant back on his heels and urged himself to stay calm. He couldn't freak out. Even though this situation was definitely freak-out worthy, he was the only one alive and uninjured right now._

 

_"Inspector Robert Dupre, Chief of Police's office." Dupre hissed into the phone, "There's been a shootout. One dead, two injured."_

 

_In the meantime, Patrick glanced back down at Pete, taking his time to assess the damage._

_He looked paler than usual and his eyelids kept slipping closed. Patrick leant down and pressed a hand to his cheek, smoothing his thumb over the other man's cheekbone. "Pete, stay awake. Okay? Just stay awake."_

 

_Dupre's voice growled out again, he sounded like was at the end of his tether. "What- Where am I?"_

 

_Patrick's eyes flickered upwards, watching the Inspector losing his patience with whichever poor receptionist was on the other end of the phone. "How the hell am I supposed to know where I am? It's the fucking forest, are ya kidding me? How many forests are there in-"_

 

_Pete coughed softly and Patrick looked back down._

_The warden's eyes had slipped closed again. Patrick was quick to pat his cheek again, he couldn't let Pete fall unconscious. "Pete? Pete, keep your eyes open, okay?"_

 

_Pete's eyes opened to tiny slits, the brown of his irises hardly peeking past dark eyelashes, but it was good enough._

_More or less satisfied, Patrick tore his gaze away to look down at the wound instead._

 

_Now, Patrick wasn't a doctor or anything, but something felt wrong. There was too much blood. Patrick had never seen so much blood._

  
  


 

 

"The judge is about order an end the search." The woman on the screen spoke blankly into her microphone, "The police presume that the 9 million dollars is in the possession of Brendon Urie."

 

David clenched his joined hands and watched Kevin grunt and stand up from the corner of his eye.

He'd always known Kevin had a bit of a temper, but his son had been surprising him over these past two weeks.

He'd never seen him so volatile, so _angry_. Even visiting Patrick that morning hadn't seemed to calm him down, indeed, he seemed more tense than ever.

 

"What the fuck do we do?" Kevin barked, gesturing wildly at the reporter on the TV screen.

Well, if Kevin couldn't stay calm, David would have to set the example.

 

"He doesn't have it, he doesn't know where it is." Voice even and nonchalant, David leant back against the couch. "They found the hole we dug and it wasn't there, so of course, they think he has it."

 

He watched Kevin give a long exhale, before taking to pacing up and down the living room silently.

In truth, David was worried about him.

And, although it was a dilemma for him, half of him was actually glad that Patrick had insisted they stop chasing the money; It was having an effect on Kevin, and he really didn't want to lose _both_ of his sons to all of this.

 

Suddenly, Kevin stopped. His teeth worried at his bottom lip and his eyes were blanked over in distant thought, "Okay, what about this?" He nodded deeply, eyes flicking back towards his dad. "We go back once they leave."

 

David shook his head in an instant, "The police are gonna be there for a while. We can't go back." Before Kevin could make any protests, David stood up and lazily stepped towards the TV, watching a new report play out on the screen.

 

"Besides," David glanced over his shoulder, "didn't you hear your brother?"

"Yeah." Kevin said firmly. His brow was furrowed so deeply David was sure he'd get wrinkles there before long. "And I didn't recognise him, dad."

Kevin shook his head and bowed it, "He was acting like- like a fucking a robot, or something." He grew more restless with every word, rocking back on his heels and shaking his head again and again. "He was totally paranoid- he thought we were being recorded."

 

David hated that he agreed.

Out of all the visits he'd taken to see Patrick, this one had been the most disturbing.

The first one had been terrifying, infuriating and everything in between. Then, watching the bruises and bandages pop up on his son had been hard to watch, it was desperation-inducing. But today…Kevin was right. But concurring would only add more fuel to his fire, so David firmly shook his head instead.

 

"He's in the middle of an investigation, Kevin. Paranoia comes with the territory." He watched Kevin writhe where he stood, jaw clenching and unclenching periodically.

 

David waved a hand dismissively, "Anyway, he's right." He watched Kevin's frown deepen but held his ground. "This is a dangerous situation, and we should get out of it before things get serious."

 

Kevin made a strangled noise that landed somewhere between indignant and annoyed. David ignored him. "We'll go see the lawyer, hear the news, and wait for the trial- like Patrick asked."

 

"It's not enough!" Kevin yelled and threw his hands up, he was losing his temper quickly.

Needless to say, David didn't appreciate the tone. "Your brother was in a shootout, Kevin. He could've been hurt, he could've-"

 

David choked on the word 'died'.

It was something he couldn't even bare to think about, but over these two weeks it had always been in the back of his mind; He couldn't shake that horrible picture of his youngest child lying dead in the middle of Breton forest.

 

Kevin seemed to picture the same thing. He'd dropped his crossed arms and the rage flowing out of him had cooled. As Kevin moved back towards the couch to take a seat, a sudden blaring noise broke their uneasy silence.

 

The house phone was ringing, and Kevin reached it long before David had even taken a step towards it.

 

Quickly accepting the call, Kevin shoved the phone between his ear and shoulder, "Hello?"

David watched his son's brow furrow. Kevin straightened up, hand moving to curl around the phone as his eyes narrowed into a squint. "Who is this?"

A few silent seconds later, and Kevin was hanging up and shoving the phone back into the stand with an annoyed sigh, "Nobody."

 

It struck David as odd- doubly so, considering what their situation had been over the past few months, but just as he tried to press Kevin for a little more information- there was a knock at the door.

 

Kevin raised a brow at his dad and all David could do was furrow his. They hadn't been expecting anyone.

With an odd feeling of caution urging him to be careful, David moved towards the front door, sparing glances back at Kevin. His son seemed to be going through the same suspicions in his head.

 

A slow exhale escaping his mouth, David wrapped his hand around the door handle and tipped his chin up, leaning forwards to peek through the peephole.

 

The second he saw who it was, he gave a loud exhale and swiftly opened the door.

 

Patricia stood there, looking a little sheepish but healthier than she'd looked before leaving.

David blinked in surprise; She'd been visiting her sister and wasn't due back for two days, but there she stood.

She'd walked home from the train station, that much was obvious; Her tote bag had a broken button and worn edges, it was no doubt full of clothes and it was probably heavy.

 

With a small sting of guilt, David smiled but tutted. "Why didn't you tell me you were coming home early?" He reached out to take her bag and loop another arm around her shoulders, "I would've picked you up-"

Just then, the broken button gave and snapped back, making the bag spill open.

David rushed to grab the other handle, before he saw what looked like dollar bills, all twisted into a considerable amount of rolls.

 

 

 

 

 

The Governor smiled widely and joined her hands, dropping them on the table. "The assessment board have met."

 

The tension was killing Joe, but he resisted the urge to just beg her to spit it out already.

It had been two weeks. He'd been waiting on the news for two goddamn weeks. He understood that a lot of shit had happened, that people had been hurt and that these things took time- but _two weeks_ of silence had been tortuous.

 

"They've agreed to put you on day release."

 

Joe could barely believe his ears. He'd been so sure they'd go back on their word but-

He couldn't contain the smile that spread across his face and he leant back in his seat, plans and ideas already filling his head.

 

"You'll be able to leave during working hours." The Governor continued, her smile was stuck in place as she watched Joe dragging his hands over his face. "So, naturally, you'll have to get a job-"

 

Joe's face dropped.

 

"What?" His brow furrowed and his smile was long dead. He shifted to the edge of his seat again, horror bubbling in his chest. "Are you serious?"

At the Governor's confused blink, Joe's mouth fell open and he made a breathless noise, shaking his head sluggishly.

It had been too good to be true. He was such an idiot, he was such a fucking idiot- Why did he ever believe them-

 

"Joe-" The Governor's face was rife with confusion, "You need a job, it's basic procedure."

 

Everything exploded inside of him like an atom bomb.

 

He slammed his hands on her desk the anger was a lump in his throat. "How _the actual fuck_ am I supposed to get a job?!" He yelled, he could feel the vein in his neck throbbing, "Who the hell is gonna hire someone on day release?! Huh?! _Who_?!"

 

The Governor was pressed back into her chair, a nervous look had taken hold of her now. "Joe, I'm sorry- but it's basic procedure-"

 

"Stop saying it's basic procedure." He hissed venomously.

He'd worn that wire, Patrick could've died, people got shot- all of it had been for nothing. And now, he couldn't even move to another cell block to escape the shame, he'd have to stay right where he was for at least another year.

  
  
  


Patrick raised his brow at the raised voices that rang out from behind the door.

It was unusual, officials were usually polite and no inmates would dare scream at the Governor herself.

 

With a shake of his head, he put it out of his mind and shifted over to the waiting row of chairs.

Only one person was there, Patrick recognised him as Josh- one of the nicer wardens employed by USP Colbert.

 

They spared each other a tight smile and Patrick sat down, leaving a chair between them for good measure. Josh wasn't a despot or anything, but overstepping boundaries was something Patrick was determined to avoid.

 

But, to his surprise, Josh seemed more intent on boundary-breaking than he did.

He cocked his head at Patrick a little, "Are you here to see the Governor?" Patrick was quick to nod softly, "Uh, yeah."

 

As Josh gave a final slow nod, Patrick took to staring down at his pigeon-toed feet instead. He strained his ears and listened to the muffled arguing in the office. It still hadn't stopped and Patrick could only offer vague guesses as to what was going on behind the door.

 

"I heard what happened in the forest." Josh chimed into the silence again.

Patrick turned his head and raised an eyebrow, wondering what he meant exactly.

 

Since the events in the forest, Patrick had been the center of quite a few rumours.

They ranged from dull to ridiculous, and questions were fired at Patrick almost daily now.

Some people were convinced nothing important had happened, they went along with what the official police statement said- Dull.

Others said he'd stolen a gun and shot the other three, before making a break for it- Ridiculous. And, he would probably be in a morgue right now, if he'd actually tried that.

 

Josh brought up neither.

 

"Your gun went off, right?" He tilted his head to the other side, "That happened to me on my first day. Kinda embarrassing." He chuckled, and Patrick offered a smile, since he couldn't quite muster a laugh.

 

And that was the most popular rumour of all; It was whispered from cell to cell, from person to person, and they all said that Patrick had shot someone. Well, whether that was true or not, less people called him 'rat' now and that was a win in his book.

 

He was only spared about ten quiet seconds before Josh's mouth parted again, his head hanging to the side and his eyes narrowing into a small squint, "You could've escaped."

 

Patrick bit down on his tongue and twiddled his thumbs.

Yes, he was aware of that, but he couldn't have lived with himself if he had.

 

Josh leant forwards a little, his forearms bracing on his thighs. "So, why didn't you?"

The corner's of Patrick's mouth quirked upwards and he raised his head. He let a tired smile settle on his face, "I'm not _that_ much of an asshole."

 

 

 

 

"You want me to get a job." Joe insisted, jaw and teeth aching from the sheer amount they ground against each other. "But no one with any amount of sanity would hire someone on day release. So explain the _logic_ there to me, alright? How am I-"

 

"May I remind you." She growled back, standing from her seat in one graceful move, "This is a gift. You haven't earned it, you aren't entitled to-"

"I haven't earned it?!" He couldn't help raising his voice again. "You think betraying my friend was easy?! You really think wearing a _fucking wire_ was easy?!"

 

That's when she fell quiet, head dipping and eyes intent on avoiding eye contact.

 

Joe's lip curled. He shook his head quickly and made his way towards the door. He was fed up, he was exhausted and he felt too guilty and regretful to function.

 

He swung the office door open, and his eyes instantly fell on Patrick.

 

His mouth hung open uselessly as he stared at the other inmate. He- along with Josh, was sat on the waiting chairs, and by the expression on his face, Joe knew he'd heard everything.

 

Joe couldn't bare to even try and begin to defend himself. All he could do was walk away, so that's what he did.

He ducked past Patrick and soldiered away, keeping his head down and his eyes narrowed- all while ignoring Patrick's stare on the back of his neck.

 

 

 

  
  
  
  
_"H-He's bleeding. There's too much-"_

_Patrick stuttered nervously, glancing up at the Inspector once again. The other man was too busy shoving his phone back into his pocket._

 

_Patrick pressed his hands over Pete's, grimacing as the blood seeped through the gaps and stained his fingers as well. Pete pulled his hands out from under Patrick's, before quickly putting them over and gripping his fingers for some kind of support._

 

_"Fuck-" His face twisted into a hiss and his head lolled against the floor, eyes clenching shut for a mere few seconds._

_Pete was a lot more alert now, he'd managed to walk and stay upright for a few seconds. It had only been long enough to shift towards one of the trees and sink down against it._

_But, the move seemed to have taken all his energy, because now, no matter how many times he tried to push himself to his feet he always collapsed with a violent cough and a hand over his wound._

 

_Patrick swallowed deeply but let Pete cling to his hands. He looked back up at the Inspector, watching him sit against the tree with closed eyes and slow, shallow breathing._

 

_"How long until they find us?" He called, intent on keeping both surviving men awake._

_"30 minutes." Dupre spat out, "An hour." The Inspector grunted as his fingers squeezed around his arm. "I don't know."_

 

_"That's too long." Patrick whined and Dupre could only give a stilted nod._

 

_"Pete." The Inspector called a few moments later, "You need to go."_

 

_The older man winced again, taking a moment to get through the tremor that wracked his arm, "You can lean on Patrick, you need to reach the road."_

_Pete twisted and grit his teeth together, hissing out his answer as his grip became crushing. "I can't-"_

 

_"Pete. You have to go." Dupre ordered again, "Do you hear me?"_

 

_Pete stilled for a moment. Patrick watched his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed deeply and ultimately nodded._

_With a satisfied nod back, Dupre nodded at Patrick, eyes wide and awake, "Come here."_

 

_Reluctantly drawing away, Patrick moved over to Dupre and crouched down beside him._

_The older man fished the keys to the handcuffs from his pockets. They were small, silver and shiny, all jingling together as he grabbed the right key._

 

_The Inspector leant to his side and Patrick held his wrists out. But then, the older man hesitated._

 

_Dupre stopped and stared him in the eye for a good few seconds. Eyes dark with pain and a little squinted, Patrick felt himself getting a little nervous under the judging stare._

 

_Then, in a pair of moves so swift Patrick hardly registered them, Dupre unlocked the handcuffs and tugged them off with a few metallic clicks. With that, he nodded back towards Pete and nodded another order, "Go help him."_

 

_Patrick was back at Pete's side in less than a second, kneeling down beside him once again. The warden squinted at him for a moment, eyes flicking between his face and his newly freed wrists, specks of suspicion in his irises._

 

_"You're not gonna run, right?"_

 

_Patrick held back a laugh and shook his head, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards. "I'm not that much of an asshole."_

_And despite everything, despite having a hole under his ribs and despite his eyelids drooping further every second: Pete laughed breathily and nodded, "Got it."_

 

_The small smile still on his face, Patrick held out an arm and Pete accepted, quickly gripping his forearm and digging his fingers into it._

_He braced his other hand on the dirt floor, Patrick noted how the fingers gripped and trembled. Something told him Pete was too weak for this, but they needed to get help-_

 

_"Can I trust you?"_

 

_Patrick blinked, snapped out of his thoughts by the question. The warden was staring at him, waiting for an answer in silence, so Patrick did all he could do. He nodded._

 

_With the echo of a nod back, Pete pulled Patrick towards him by the forearm, gripping him tightly and keeping him still. His free hand reached forwards and curled around the column of Patrick's neck. His fingers were warm and bruising at the same time._

_He pulled him closer still and leant to the side, so that their cheeks were flush together and so that his mouth settled beside Patrick's ear. He only breathed for a moment, and Patrick felt goosebumps spread over his arms._

 

_"Get the gun."_

 

_"What are you whispering about?" Dupre called out, brow furrowed through another tremor that shook his leg._

 

_With a blink, Patrick drew away from Pete- who easily let him go, and stood. Ignoring the Inspector's question, he moved towards the dead assistant instead. His stomach twisted a little every time he looked at the corpse._

 

_Leaning down, he reached for the dead assistant's gun. It had fallen to the ground when its owner had, falling into the dirt and leaves._

_He took it in his hand and dusted the dead leaves from it. The weight was unfamiliar and truth be told, it made his hands shake._

 

 

 

 

 

Ryan stared at his reflection. Sometimes, it was almost unfamiliar. He wondered how much his reflection had changed since he'd been interned in this place; Had those bags under his eyes always been there? Had they always looked that dull?

The truth was, he could barely remember anymore.

 

"What's wrong?" Mikey asked from beside him, voice muffled around his toothbrush.

Ryan watched him from the corner of his eye for a moment, before focusing back on himself in the mirror and admitting a horrible truth to himself, "I haven't seen Brendon in five years."

 

He heard Mikey spit into the sink, followed by running water.

"Has he called you yet?" He asked a second later.

 

"No." Ryan said plainly, watching the scowl that twitched around his mouth.

He hated being this controlling at times. What he wouldn't give to never worry about his husband again. What he wouldn't give to just have a normal life. Maybe a house, possibly a dog. Or three.

 

He shook the thought from his head.

He and Brendon would never have a house and three dogs. Ryan was a prisoner, Brendon was wanted by Interpol. That's how it was, wishing for a fantasy wouldn't do him any good.

 

"Well, Ry, I mean…" Mikey began, "He took a big risk at the forest."

 

Mikey was right. It was logical. Brendon wasn't about to let himself get caught.

 

"He has to lay low for a while, the cops are all over the place." He nudged Ryan in the shoulder, "Besides, he can look after himself."

 

Ryan said nothing.

Of course it made sense, it was perfectly expected. So why was he so on edge? Why did it feel like something was wrong?

It had to all be in his head, right?

 

"C'mon, he's crazy about you." Mikey tried again. Ryan knew he was making Mikey nervous recently. "If he didn't really love you, he wouldn't be running around after that money like a headless chicken or something, right?"

 

"Thing is-" Ryan leant up from the sink, pushing back onto his heels but never taking his eyes off his own reflection. "He has 9 million dollars. That's a lot of money."

 

"What? You think he's gonna run off with it?" Mikey huffed, but Ryan could only shrug. Was it really so crazy?

With that much money, Brendon could move anywhere, do anything- and he wouldn't have to spend any of it on organising a goddamn _heist_.

 

"I heard Patrick shot someone." Ryan chewed on the inside of his cheeks, blunt fingernails falling into a steady tap tap tap on the ceramic sink.

 

"I don't buy it." Mikey added quickly, busying himself with drying his toothbrush.

 

"I do." Ryan stared at his reflection, "I didn't think he'd find the SIM card, but he did. Didn't think he'd have the balls to steal a phone, but he did."

He finally tore his eyes away from the mirror and looked at Mikey instead. He'd fallen quiet.

 

"I underestimated him." Ryan finished, the tapping of his fingernails becoming more and more uneven.

He'd been stupid. Underestimating people was always a mistake; People could always exceed their limits with the right incentives.

Plenty of people had underestimated _Ryan_ before, and now, he'd been stupid enough to turn around and do the same to Patrick.

 

He left that all unsaid, however. He had a reputation to maintain, regret wasn't a part of it.

 

"You…You honestly don't think he…?" Mikey's voice was quiet at first, but when Ryan didn't give him an answer, he shook his head fervently and chuckled. "Ryan. Ryan- that's ridiculous. _Patrick_ could never ki-"

 

Ryan simply shook his head and walked away, "I don't want to talk about it."

 

 

 

 

 

"Everyone wanted to help."

Nodding at the bundle of notes in Kevin's hand, Patricia couldn't help the small smile on her face. "It's almost 170,000 dollars."

 

She glanced over at David. He didn't look as pleased as she did, to say the least.

 

He was stood beside the television, completely silent as he watched Kevin unfurl the rolls, count the notes and jot down the amounts on a notepad. His face was firm and blank, at times like this he was almost unreadable to Patricia.

 

"Your brother said he'd make a transfer on Wednesday." She added, glancing back at the bag packed to the brim with clothes and money.

 

It was a little intimidating how quickly news spread among families.

 

After spending weeks researching, watching and reading everything that might tell her what Patrick went through every day, David had urged her to take a break. It wasn't healthy, it was only making her mental state worse, he'd begged her to go on vacation for a while- to distance herself from Illinois, from the prison, from Patrick. The idea had made her uneasy, but she'd agreed.

 

She'd gone to visit her sister, and it hadn't even been a full day before she'd told her everything. Needless to say, her sister had been horrified and a fountain of questions, and before long, she was calling as many members of their family that weren't estranged.

Relatives popped up like weeds, funneling condolences, questions and money their way, every one of them laden with sympathy.

Answering the same kinds of questions about Patrick and the situation every day hadn't been easy, but she understood the intentions. And the intentions were good.

 

"You told my brother?" After the long silence, only broken by the rustling of dollar bills, that was all David said. Voice firm and quiet all at once, Patricia furrowed her brow at him, "Are you worried about what they'll say?"

 

He crossed his arms in an instant, "No, that has nothing to do with it-"

 

"He offered." Patricia insisted, watching the scowl on her husband's face twist and untwist his features as emotions flared and calmed.

She tilted her head, the warm fuzzy feeling her family's support had provided was quickly souring. She didn't understand why David was making an issue out of this.

 

"He has plenty of money, David. He wanted to help."

 

The tension was palpable in the room, so much so that Kevin had paused his writing and was now nervously glancing between his passively bickering parents.

But the atmosphere only thickened when David sucked in a deep breath and narrowed his eyes at the floor, "My brother's a restaurant manager, not a millionaire."

 

"Where did they get all this from?" Kevin cut in, eager to relieve some of the quiet, shaking anger in the room. Patricia opened her mouth to answer her son, but before she could, David's voice cut across the ghost of hers.

 

"No, Patricia." He ordered, shaking his head firmly. "We need to give this back-"

Patricia threw her hands up, "They wanted to help, David!" Irritation was curling in the pit of her stomach. "We'd do the same for them!"

 

"We need to return this. We need to return all of it." He soldiered towards the desk, taking the unrolled dollars and quickly pulling them back into place, securing the discarded rubber bands around them again.

"But-" Kevin stood and moved towards him, whispering lowly. "What are we going to pay Patrick's bail with? If we're not gonna look for the-"

 

For the second time that day, the loud ringing of the house phone put a dead stop to all conversation.

David's head jerked up towards it, but once again, he was beaten to the phone.

 

Patricia tugged the phone from the stand and answered the call, pressing it to her ear with the typical greeting of: "Hello?"

"Who's this?" She blinked oddly and they watched her brow furrow deeply.

 

For some reason, David couldn't shake the odd suspicious feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  
  
  
  
  
  


_Patrick moved back over and knelt down beside Pete again, quickly passing the handgun to him._

_With a sharp exhale, Pete was quick to check how many bullets were left. Even with shaky hands, he still pulled it off efficiently enough._

 

_"What the fuck are you doing?" The Inspector tilted his head at them, brow furrowed and mouth curled into an open scowl. Pete shook his head stubbornly. "I'm not leaving."_

_"What?" The older of the two almost growled, but Pete held his ground and shot a glare his way, "We're not leaving you in the middle of the woods, Rob."_

 

_Pete squinted at the handgun, then back at the Inspector, "That guy had a Glock, right?"_

_Dupre nodded quickly, "I think so. Looked like a Glock 17."_

_He shifted, doing his best to lean to his side and towards them, "He's empty." The more time that passed, the more desperate the Inspector seemed to get. "For the love of God, just get out of here."_

 

_"You're assuming he hasn't reloaded." Pete's nose wrinkled, wincing as he pressed down on his injury again. "Besides, you could pass out. They'd never find you, you fuckin' idiot. I'm staying." He was so exhausted that even his insults sounded half-hearted._

 

_Patrick glanced between them both, unsure of who's side to take._

_All he knew was that the Inspector was holding up a lot better; He was more alert, he was bleeding less- he could survive for longer._

_But Pete…that was another story._

 

_"Pete." Patrick cut in, pressing a hand to his shoulder, imploring the warden as best he could. "Let's just go to the road and get help. Please."_

 

_"Don't be so stubborn." The Inspector echoed with a nod, but when Pete only shook his head again, his expression changed._

_His eyes were fiery as he growled out his next words, "Your stubbornness is going to kill us both, Wentz."_

_Patrick glanced between them both nervously, it was obvious Pete was digging his heels in, but it was clear that the Inspector was losing his calm._

 

_"It's always been your problem, y'know that?" He rumbled, brow knitted together and voice starting to dissolve into a rasp. "That time in Englewood, your sister- all of it's your fault."_

 

_Pete exhaled sharply like he'd been punched in the gut. Inspector Dupre only glared at him, the tremors in his arm and legs spreading all over him. "All thanks to your stupid decisions."_

 

_"Will you shut your fucking mouth?" Pete half-barked, half-grunted out._

_The Inspector didn't seem to care, he insisted on piling more and more salt on the wound. "I'll shut my mouth whenever I want. You have to leave. For once in your goddamn life, listen to someone smarter than you-"_

_Despite himself, Pete leant up and glared at him, fully ready to bite back, before-_

 

_"Fuck- SHUT UP!" Patrick interjected, glancing between both of them wildly. "Just shut the fuck up! Both of you!"_

 

_He turned to Pete first, "You're gonna bleed out-"_

_Patrick turned and quickly tugged Pete's jacket- that had long since fallen to the ground, towards him. Brow furrowed and in complete silence, he looked down at the injury below Pete's ribs._

_He tugged his sweater and shirt up._

_He couldn't help grimacing at the wound or glancing the black patches of ink on him, but he quickly pulled himself together. He pressed the jacket up to the entry wound with a harsh shove that made Pete give an agonizing groan._

 

_"Fuck-" Patrick breathed, quickly grimacing and trying to gentle the pressure of his hands. Pete's head was buried and his eyes were screwed shut. All Patrick could do was parrot apologies that got shakier and shakier with each one, "I'm sorry, I'm really sorry, just-"_

 

_It was just then that the muffled sound of a phone ringing cut through his chain of 'Sorry's._

_Patrick blinked and buried one hand in the awkwardly positioned pocket of Pete's crumpled jacket. He quickly fished out the phone- a guilty deja-vu running over him at the memory. Squinting at the buzzing screen, he scanned his eyes over the contact. He glanced down at Pete, "Uh…It's your mom?"_

 

_Pete's head lolled back against the bark of the tree, eyes screwing shut for a moment. "For fuck's sake."_

_The timing was awful, so all Patrick could do was shrug and offer. "Should I just-"_

 

_"Give it here." Pete sighed, shaking his head and holding out a hand for the phone._

_It seemed like the worst time to talk to your mom, but Patrick didn't argue. He simply passed it over and watched Pete answer, pressing the mobile between his shoulder and ear._

 

_Patrick dropped his head to the injury, but still strained his ears to listen. He could just about hear the quiet voice of who he supposed was Pete's mom, made buzzy by the phone speaker. "Hello? Pete, can you hear me?"_

 

_"Yeah- Hi mom." Pete's face curled into a grimace as his free hand pressed down alongside Patrick's, "I can't talk right now-"_

_Patrick watched him bite his tongue and shiver through another stab of agony. He turned his head away to breathe deeply for a moment, before turning back to the phone. "I'll call you later, okay?"_

 

_A second later, he was shakily ending the call and leaving red smears on the screen._

_He dropped the phone to the ground and pressed his head back against the tree, hissing as another nerve was set alight._

 

_"Can't you tell her the truth for once?" Dupre sighed drearily from over where he sat. Patrick noted how much more exhausted he seemed; Arguing and urging Pete to leave had really taken it out of him._

_"What the fuck am I supposed to tell her, you fuck?" Pete scoffed weakly, "'Hey mom, I'm bleeding out in the middle of the woods, see you at the hospital'?"_

_Patrick's hand flew to the hollow between Pete's collar and neck, and he pressed down, "Calm down." He couldn't let Pete exhaust himself too. He was already in worse shape than the Inspector was._

 

_"You promised her you wouldn't get involved in this kind of thing again." Dupre's voice was quieter and definitely a lot less aggressive than it had been mere minutes ago, "You owe her the truth."_

 

_"Could you save the lectures for another time?" Pete slurred against his own shoulder, eyes falling shut with a flutter._

_"Pete-" Patrick moved one of his hands up to Pete's face again, turning his head back and urging him with a shake. "Hey, c'mon, stay awake."_

 

_Slowly, Pete peeled his dull eyes open as though it was the effort of a lifetime. Patrick gulped as the brown eyes flicked over to him, his breath hitched nervously when a weak string of words followed. "Will you help me?"_

 

_"Of course." Patrick nodded quickly._

_Nodding once, Pete took the previously discarded handgun from the ground and pushed it into Patrick's chest, grip-first._

_Patrick took it from him without much argument, but before he could question him- Pete's shoulders dropped and his head lolled to the side, eyes open and blank._

 

_"Pete?" Patrick leant over him. He dropped the gun in an instant and pressed his hands to the sides of his worryingly pale face, "Pete, can you hear me?"_

_When Pete gave him no answer, when he only stared blankly- Patrick started panicking._

 

_His hands dropped to Pete's shoulders. He tried shaking him awake, but the other man just lay there, eyes dull and every inch of him motionless._

_"Fuck." Patrick shook his head, the air around him suddenly felt suffocating and unbreathable. "Pete? No, no- C'mon, wake up-"_

 

_"Get to the road." He heard Dupre's raspy voice raise from his side, there was a note of desperation in it. He urged Patrick again, leaning forwards and dropping a hand to the ground, "Go! Run!"_

 

_So Patrick ran._

 

_He grabbed the handgun and tore away from them, sprinting forwards into the blurry woods and past the messy rows of trees that seemed to go on forever._

 

 

 

 

 

Although it was an old cliché, Monday mornings were usually one of Pete's least favourite things.

The misery of having to soldier through another string of workdays, the memory of a warm bed still haunting the back of his mind, the clocks that ticked so slowly he was certain the end of the day would never come- It sucked, basically.

 

But today was a little different. It was daunting- yes, terrifying- a little, but it would also put one of the questions Pete had been asking himself for two weeks to rest.

 

So that morning he crawled out of the bus and made his way to the prison.

The huge beige fortress, branded with 'USP Colbert' and bordered with barbed wire wasn't intimidating or threatening anymore. His stomach didn't twist, his skin didn't prickle, his teeth didn't chew on his tongue- all the symptoms had faded over the years.

He paced inside, barely having to show his ID card before being allowed past the public access areas. Pete moved onwards, taking his direct pass to the break room before his shift was really due to start.

When he finally pushed past the door, he was met with a mostly empty staff room- spare for two other wardens milling around and going about their business.

 

His eyes fell on Josh first.

He was sipping at his coffee and nonchalantly scrolling through his phone, giving Pete enough time to judge how he was supposed to greet him.

 

This wouldn't take any thought on a normal day, but today was different.

One week in the hospital, one of recovering at home and being fussed over by his parents- it hadn't been a typical time for him, and Pete felt like he'd lost all touch with the world.

 

Despite the doubts buzzing in his head, Pete quietly made his way over to the coffee maker, deciding that was a decent place to start.

He hadn't even reached the counter before Josh's head snapped upwards. His face blanched in shock for a moment, but it split into an open grin a moment later.

 

"Dude- Holy shit-" Josh grabbed him and pulled him into a quick, messy hug that pulled a surprised laugh from him.

When he pulled back, his eyes raked back and forth as though he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing, "Are you okay? How've you been?"

 

Pete huffed and shrugged lightly, busying himself with pouring a cup of coffee for a few moments. "I'm okay. I've been better, but I'm alright."

"I can't believe you're back." Josh leant back on the counter, arms crossing swiftly. "I mean- You got _shot_ , man."

Pete glanced back at him with a small smile and a raised eyebrow. "I'm aware."

 

"So, is that it? Are you in the clear, or-?"

Pete shook his head and tugged up his sweater, showcasing the neat white bandages under his ribs. Josh's eyes widened, "Shit."

"They're so tight I can't breathe sometimes." Pete chuckled, dropping his shirt and wrapping both hands around his cup instead.

 

"Well shit." Josh sighed out, tone especially serious for a moment. "I missed you, man."

"Same here." The corners of Pete's mouth twitched and he took another sip, "The doctors are worse than the prisoners."

 

"Well-" Josh leant forwards and nudged him in the shoulder, "Glad you're back. I'm sick of doing _both_ our jobs." Pete chuckled and nodded thoughtfully.

As he gulped down another mouthful of scalding coffee, his eyes narrowed a little as an old thought ran through his head.

 

He looked up at Josh, eyes still narrow in a squint. "Do you know how he is?" Josh's brow shot up, "Who?"

"Oh-" Pete cleared his throat, obviously not everyone had been contemplating how Patrick Stump was for two straight weeks. "Patrick? Is he okay?"

Josh gave a quick nod, "Uh- Fine. He's fine." His head tilted to the side for a moment, eyes glazing over thoughtfully. "Integrating better, recently."

 

"Integrating better?" Pete couldn't help the tinge of worry in his voice. 'Integrating' in prison wasn't exactly a good thing. Josh sensed to concern and shook his head quickly once again, "I mean, he's getting in less trouble. Fitting in better."

 

Pete nodded slowly and let the conversation change gears completely.

He nodded along to the topics, asked the customary, generic questions, but no matter how long they talked, Pete couldn't shake it from his head; Patrick was integrating better. That worried him.

 

 

 

 

 

Ryan crouched down beside the chair in his cell. He glanced behind him, to his right, to his left and finally, towards Dallon.

He was busy sleeping, curled in on himself in his bunk.

 

Good. Ryan nodded to himself and subtly tipped the chair to the side, holding the frame with one hand while the other pulled the rubber stop out of one of the legs.

The sock-wrapped bundle slipped out a moment later, and Ryan was quick to slip the chair back down and moved towards his bunk.

 

Facing the wall and squashing himself into the alcove beside his bunk, he tugged the primitive phone out of the sock and looked down of it.

It almost trembled in his hand as he glared down at it.

 

Strength urged him to put it away, to ignore it, to wait for a message.

Weakness told him to call.

That had been the battle waging in his head these past two weeks; The silence from Brendon was agony, the fear that something had happened to him was worse.

And no matter how many times he called, the answer was always a woman urging him to leave a voicemail. He never did, of course. That was a recipe for disaster.

 

No, instead, Ryan would hang up and proceed to let the anger and fear build up inside of him. He knew it would explode at some point, he'd do something he would definitely regret, but it wasn't like he could help it.

 

He looked down at the phone and slowly flipped it open, letting it power to life.

His eyes glazed over as he watched the logos freeze on the screen, his thoughts overpowered everything else.

Should he? Shouldn't he? It was a fight he was tired of, the voices and thoughts arguing for either side were maddening. But there came the problem: Weakness always won.

 

The second the phone jolted to life, Ryan was already typing in Brendon's number. He almost growled at every beep and every number that popped up on the screen in white.

Why was he so weak? Why couldn't he withstand it? Had he always been like this?

 

The phone started ringing and Ryan eagerly pressed it to his ear, hazarding another glance behind him at the open cell bars.

He chewed on the inside of his cheek brutally, shoving off the taste of iron and pouring all his focus onto the steady, electronic ring that was driving him insane. It felt like it had been a century when a voice finally spoke.

 

" _The number you are trying to call is currently unavailable_."

 

 


	8. Dark Days, Bright Nights

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi hello, yes it's been actual months since I last updated, and I still haven't given up on this fic. A bunch of life/family stuff has been eating up all my time lately, and I've honestly just been too busy and drained to write. But, the worst of it's over now, and I have most of my free time back.
> 
> So, if literally anyone is still reading this/mildly interested in this, you're amazing and you have the patience of a saint. As always, a huge thank you to my beta reader. And yeah, I hope this is decent enough to justify the wait lol. Thank you, and enjoy!

 

There were only seven officers and a doctor, but the stench of coffee in the room was already unbearable.  
  
The Governor's mouth curled into a scowl as she sent a glance over at the abused coffee machine and the hordes of empty mugs that littered the counters. Eyes flicking towards the workers, she took a moment to scan over the predictable sight.   
  
Wide yawns, thousand-yard stares and a couple of them falling asleep where they stood.   
It was always like this on these small hour shifts, all her employees reduced to eyebags and bleary stares.   
  
She didn't like it one bit.   
  
Yes, she wasn't a monster- she could sympathise, but that didn't change the fact that they weren't running the night shift at a fast food place or a store. Being alert and aware at all times was part of the job, and-   
  
She reigns herself in with a shake of her head.

 

"Good morning." She called out stiffly. Her employees weren't exactly enthusiastic.  
  
A choir of tired, half-hearted voices answered her, she could barely make out the words 'good morning' through all the yawning and slurring.   
  
Her lip curled, she pinned them with a terse stare. "May I have your attention please?"   
  
There was a collective exhale, and slowly, heads began bobbing up and eyes locked onto her- not without a few groans and frustrated murmurs.   
  
Grinding her teeth and ignoring the blatant disrespect, she dropped her eyes to the clipboard in her hands. "I have some good news. This month, you'll all be paid what you're owed from the holidays."   
There was a quiet ripple of voices, mutters, mumbles and rolled eyes all agreeing on the general sentiment of 'finally'.

 

Her brow is furrowed when she glances upwards again.  
  
"There's also a more…" The Governor hesitated, the words felt heavy and stuck on her tongue like glue. "A more sensitive matter."   
  
She frowns, thinks for a moment, and the memory hits her like a truck.

 

Last Friday, the sun bearing down over the courtyard, and one particular prisoner who was completely and utterly wrecked.  
  
Spencer's eyes had been so red, it looked painful. She'd asked him the most simple questions imaginable. 'What did you eat this morning?' and 'Where are you right now?' were both answered with long stares and a hanging jaw.   
  
There weren't many things that could do that to a person, but the Governor had a pretty good idea of what had caused Spencer's problem.

 

"Doctor." She said flatly, eyes landing on him. He sat at the table, he'd been reading a grey newspaper before he'd quickly set it aside to seem attentive.  
  
"How long have you been treating Spencer with methadone?"   
  
The doctor hummed for a moment, eyes sweeping from side to side. With his little thinking period over, he cocked his head up towards her. "Just over six months."   
  
Her jaw locked, a flare of anger raked every inch of her.

"That's six months wasted." She said tersely, the flesh of her fingers going white as she all but strangled the clipboard. "Somebody sold him drugs- I'm assuming heroin."

 

Her lip curls, she already knows who the guilty party is, but there's no solid evidence. And finding it isn't going to be easy, he covers his tracks well.

"At a guess, it may have been Frank Iero." She draws out the padding around his name, it frustrates her to no end. If it were up to her, or _legal_ _in any way_ , she'd have them march to his cell and drag him before a judge immediately.

 

Unfortunately, they'd have to go about this the long, proper way.

"I want him watched constantly. His friends, his cellmates- I want them all watched, and I want to know how he gets the drugs."

 

Her eyes snapped towards one of the prison officers that seemed a little less present.   
His head was drooping, his eyes were vacant, he was thinking about somewhere or something else.

 

"Walker."

 

Just like a deer in headlights, Walker's head jerked upwards and his eyes peeled wide.  
The Governor glared, "Make sure you're searching them properly. No cutting corners and no exceptions."   
  
She tossed her head over her shoulder, Doctor Reynolds was still sat up straight in his chair, hands folded neatly on the table. "We're going to repeat tests on all suspected drug users." She ordered, Reynolds gives her a nod in return.   
  
"As for the rest of you-" She turned to the 'rest' and looked them up and down. They were significantly more awake than they'd been a few minutes ago.   
  
"I want vigilance at all times. I don't care how tired you are, I don't care if you're in a bad mood- Keep your ears and eyes open." She tells them with a steely look in her eyes, "I want every letter read and every phone call intercepted. As of right now, every prisoner is a suspect."   
  
She won a few nods from the officers, but a few of them had protests in their eyes.   
It was expected, this witch-hunt meant time, energy and a bunch of extra hours. But, if they wanted to rip out the root of all the problems corrupting this place, this was where they had to begin.   
  
"This is a priority." She declared, straightening up and flaring her nostrils. "I'm not letting this prison turn into a drug den."   
  
The room was silent, she could've heard a pin drop.   
  
Her eyes sweep over the employees, her lip curls and she sighs. "Get to work."   
  
There's a collective exhale, and a cacophony is unleashed.   
Scraping chairs, footsteps and conversation fires up all at once. The officers begin pouring towards the door, heading out to follow her instructions, but before they all have a chance to leave, the Governor makes a beeline towards one of them.

 

"Josh."

 

She comes to a stop beside the young warden, she watches his eyes flash and widen.  
"We're going to be conducting another drug search." The Governor pins him there with a sharp look, "I need you to be a witness."   
  
There are only three of them left now, Doctor Reynolds had only leant back in his chair at her dismissal.   
  
Josh glances between the other two people in the room silently. Then he glances over his shoulder, eyes grazing the door longingly. When he glances back towards the Governor, his face is blanched but he nods anyway. "Yes, ma'am."   
  
"Good." The Governor gave a short nod and moved past him, coming to a stop in front of the door. Her hand curls around the handle and she pulls it back, motioning her head towards the open doorway. "We'll start with the employee lockers."

 

 

 

 

 

 

'Important news' could mean a lot of things.  
It could be bad, or it could be brilliant- but those two words were so vague that David couldn't even hazard a guess.   
  
He tried to think back to the lawyer's voice that day. The tone of his voice, the words he'd used, but it was futile; He couldn't remember, and that left him back at square one.   
  
So, whatever the news was, David had no choice but to be patient and wait.   
But it wasn't easy, he'd never been very patient- something, he'd recently discovered, he'd passed onto his eldest son.   
  
David had been forced to watch Kevin pace around the house for an entire day.   
As time crept along at a snail's pace, his son only got more and more frantic. He'd bounce his leg, cross his arms, sigh, roll his eyes, tilt his head from side to side- it began running like clockwork, a little routine born of boredom and frustration.   
  
It was…irritating, yes- but David couldn't blame him.   
Every lazy tick tock of his watch made his jaw tighten, but obsessing over the clock hands and glaring at them never made them go faster.   
  
In the end, being busy always made time fly by. But being retired and having a generally peaceful life meant there wasn't much for David to do for a distraction.   
He couldn't bring himself to read or tap piano keys, it only made his mind wander anyway. So, he succumbed to it.   
  
He let his mind wander, he let his train of thought roll on and simply sat back to watch the show. It did the trick, and it wasn't long before Kevin was shaking his shoulder and hurrying the rest of the family outside.

 

 

Shrugging his coat on, David shut the garage door behind them. His eyes dragged towards the boxes stuffed with Christmas decorations, they sat on the highest shelves.  
They looked innocent enough, nobody would assume they were also housing a small cash fortune.   
  
His mouth twists into a scowl, the second Patrick is back home, he's going to be returning every cent of that money to their families.   
  
A sigh tearing from his mouth, he tore his eyes away from the shelves and moved towards the car, neatly sitting in the middle of the garage.   
  
He popped open the driver's seat door and raised his eyes. He watched Kevin round the length of the car silently, head down and eyes narrowed, surrounded by dark patches that had crept onto his skin over these past few weeks.   
  
David's face twists into a grimace as he looks to his side, eyes landing on his wife. She was silent, but she'd been silent for a while. Her skin was sallow, she was paler than usual- sometimes it took David by surprise, it made him wonder if he looked any different. He wouldn't be surprised if he did, the stress was palpable, it had to have been having an effect.   
  
As the three of them piled into the car, David cleared his throat and in response, two pairs of eyes peered over at him.   
  
"The three of us should go to see Patrick. Next time." He said quietly, hands finding their way onto the steering wheel and gripping ten and two.   
There was silence for a few moments, David could see Kevin's eyes shifting in the corner of his own, but when someone finally broke the silence, it took him by surprise.   
  
"The prosecutor says he's guilty."   
  
Patricia.   
  
Voice quiet and crestfallen from the backseat of the car, David glanced back to see her head was buried.   
Her knuckles were white, her fingers were curled around the handle of her purse.   
  
"Mom-" Kevin spat, throwing his skull back against the headrest. "Of course that's what he's saying, it's his job to-"   
  
"It'll be fine." David interjected, sending Kevin a warning look from the corner of his eye. "We're waiting for a retrial. Remember?"   
When Patricia said nothing, David craned his neck to look her in the eyes.   
  
He gave her the softest look he could, "Patrick is innocent, Patricia."   
His wife only returned a cold stare, her voice was drowned in skepticism.   
  
"Are you sure about that?"   
  
David looked away from her, chin pressing into his collarbones as he stared down at the floor of the car. He spoke without thinking, the words began tumbling out of his mouth before he realised what he was saying.   
  
"I spoke to Elisa and she told me everything, alright? I had her at gunpoint and she told me everything. It was all her fault, she-" He bit his tongue, he could feel Kevin and Patricia's stares on him, the silence in the car made his ears ring.   
  
He could still remember the weight of the gun in his hand. It had been the first time in forever since he'd threatened someone like that, and even then, it had never been so downright illegal.   
When he thought about the nuances of it all, how he'd been holding a pregnant woman at gunpoint, how scared she'd looked, the way Patrick's voice had trembled over the phone-   
  
Yeah…okay. Maybe it had been a lapse in his morals, even if it had been necessary.   
But, shit- He'd never meant for his family to find out, it should've just been another skeleton in his closet, but it had toppled out of his mouth before he ever considered-

"Alright, uh-" Kevin gulped, "Let's just calm down, and talk about this-"

 

"You had a gun on her?"

  
  
David couldn't bring himself to look at her, he tightened his grip and studied his shoes. He just couldn't look at her.   
  
"David, are you crazy?" She wasn't angry, she was terrified. The words came with a gasped whisper, he could just picture her trembling hands and parted mouth.   
  
The lump in his throat was so big, David was certain he wouldn't be able to say a word. He clamped his eyes shut and exhaled unevenly, "It was the only way."   
  
"Why would you do that? Why would-"   
  
"I had to know." He rasped again, he was only granted a merciful beat of silence before his wife's voice raised again.   
  
"David, if you keep doing this, you're going to end up in jail too."   
  
David opened his mouth to protest; He wasn't stupid or young or naive, he'd seen enough mistakes to know how not to repeat them. But, his tongue wasn't cooperating, and he couldn't seem to make a sound.   
  
All he could do was sit there, hands on the steering wheel and eyes closed.   
  
He heard his wife try a few stammered words, before giving up with a trembling exhale. "Excuse me." She said flatly, David heard one of the car doors click open. "My head hurts- I'm going to get some sleep."   
  
The rustle of fabric and soft footsteps told him she'd left the car, he still couldn't bring himself to open his eyes. And, admittedly, he felt like a gigantic coward.   
  
"Mom!" Kevin called after her, jumping out of the car with a flurry of noises, "Do you want me to stay? I can help-"   
  
"No dear." She urges, hiding her face as she wipes at her eyes. "Go see the lawyer. That's more important.

 

 

 

 

 

 

"You just-" Patrick held back a yawn with all of his might, "You just need to relax, interviews aren't that complicated."  
  
Folding one of the thin white sheets from the laundry pile beside them, Joe gave him a half-hearted glare. "And what if they ask me why I'm in prison?"   
  
Patrick blinks up at him, his eyes ache and it hurts to even move them, but he pushes past that determinedly; Joe needs his advice.   
Sure, he's been distant lately and his behaviour has been standoffish and plain weird sometimes- but Patrick has a debt to repay him. Giving him some advice is the least he can do.

 

"I…I'm not sure, uh-"

 

Joe shook his head and turned away, tossing the folded sheet onto the neat pile behind them. "Doesn't matter."

"No, Joe- Just let me think." Patrick knits his brow and racks his brain, but he can't help yawning again. Joe gives him another benign glare.   


"It doesn't matter, alright?" He snaps, reaching for another unfolded bundle of laundry. "It's not like anybody's ever gonna give me a job, anyway."  
  
"Christ, stop with the self-pity." Rolling his eyes, Patrick finds himself hissing his thoughts before he can stop himself. Joe's glare gets a little sharper, his mouth curls into a scowl.   
  
"It's just-" Patrick tried to reel back, physically curling in on himself, "Plenty of convicts get jobs." Joe scoffs. It's useless, Joe's been scoffing at his advice all day.   
  
Patrick grits his teeth, turning his back to the other man and busying himself with their task.   
  
Silence spreads between them. While the rest of the room is filled with the sounds of conversation, the insistent humming of washers and dryers, and the hisses of steam, Patrick can't bring himself to say a word to Joe. Usually, he'd try and weather through Joe's cynical tendencies, but today, he's just too exhausted to try.   
  
Patrick's been more difficult lately, he knows he's steadily getting more unapproachable with every day that goes by. It's not his fault; he barely sleeps more than three hours a night, and it's made him permanently irritated. It's like an itch under his skin, it makes him grit his teeth and tense his shoulders- and while Patrick hates feeling that way, he can't shake it.   
  
Patrick glanced over his shoulder.   
Joe was still folding sheets, head bowed, brow pulled down and mouth set in a firm line.   
  
He hadn't been in the greatest mood either recently, but Patrick couldn't blame him; 'Day release, as long as he got a job'. It wasn't easy, and Joe seemed just about ready to give up before he'd even started.   
  
Patrick had tried to help. He'd really tried, but advice could only go so far, and his patience was already running thin.   
He dropped his head and shook it, he couldn't fix Joe's problems, and, for today at least, he couldn't listen to anymore whining, he couldn't conjure up a solution out of nothing.   
  
He kept folding the sheets, he fought to keep his eyes open, and he promised himself he'd try again tomorrow.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Unscrewing the cap from the small bottle, Patricia blinked down blearily at the mass of white pills inside.  
With a very practised move, she tips two into her hand and reaches for the glass of water on the coffee table. She took a gulp and swallowed both, setting the glass back down just as quickly.   
  
Her eyes wander as she twists the cap back onto the bottle, and they naturally pull towards the photo frame that sits proudly on that same table.   
  
She picks it up, a sad smile stretches her mouth.   
  
It was a photo she forced her children to stand still for.   
Begrudging looks are stuck on Kevin and Megan's faces, despite their grins, their little faces are twisted with irritation as their younger brother clings to their arms. It's a bright summer day, the colours are bright, but their eyes are narrowed into squints thanks to the sunlight.   
  
Although 2/3s of her children look annoyed in it, she had always loved that picture; Patrick's first day of school, he'd been so nervous he'd forgotten how to tie his shoelaces.   
  
It was an eternity ago.   
It almost felt like it had never happened at all, like it had been an elaborate fever dream.   
  
Rubbing at her damp eyes, Patricia suddenly yawned widely.   
Of course. These pills always kicked in quickly, it wouldn't belong before she'd slump down and fall asleep.   
  
With a sigh that was more relieved than anything else, Patricia shuffled to lay back on the couch.   
She tugged the blanket that was thrown over the back over her and curled up in it.   
  
Her fingers loosened around the photo frame as drowsiness overcame her, even as she pulled it close. She craned her head to look down at the picture once more felt her eyes prickle and water.   
  
She'd give anything to go back to that day. She'd do things better, do things right. Then, maybe, things wouldn't be so awful now.   
But, today, at least, she could sleep and she could forget.

 

 

 

The house fell into placid silence.   
  
The only sounds in the house were creaking from old wooden stairs, the tip tap of water droplets falling from faucets, and quiet breathing from Patricia.   
  
She lay on the couch, deeply asleep, curled in a blanket and loosely gripping the photo frame she'd fallen asleep with.   
  
It was peaceful, it was noon and the daylight was getting softer as the hours crept by. The light bleeding through the curtains was almost golden by the time a new sound disrupted the peace.   
  
The clicking of a lock, the shifting of a door handle being tugged at, the sound of hinges swinging back.   
  
Brendon had taken precautions, of course. He wasn't an amateur.   
  
Wandering into a house in the middle of the day wasn't without its risks, but he'd taken his time, and planned things out as far ahead as possible.   
  
He'd camped out for a few days, just watching.   
He'd tried to discern the family's routine, but their activities were always erratic, unexpected. He'd decided that his best bet was to wait until the car crawled out of the garage and disappeared from the house, that meant less people inside, less people to deal with.   
  
He glanced around the room, tugging the rag tied around his mouth over his nose. Another little precaution, you never knew who was watching after all.   
  
The living room. The back of the couch faced him, and beyond it, he could make out a coffee table. The room was lived in, from pictures, to mugs, to keys- it was comfortably cluttered. But it seemed empty of life, it was almost completely-   
  
He paused, one foot on the wooden floor of the house and one still on the welcome mat.   
  
He'd heard something.   
  
Brendon strained his ears, swiveling his head and tugging his handgun up in front of him; it was warm from sitting in his pocket for so long, the silencer on its end had simply been another precaution.   
  
Then, there was a clatter. Straight from the couch.   
  
Brendon's head jerked to the left, and handgun shooting up towards the sound, he pulled the trigger.

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Pete Wentz." Josh read the name, one hand curled around the locker's small handle.  
  
"Alright." The Governor gave him the go-ahead, and Josh went along with the same mind-numbing procedure he'd already administered to nine other lockers.   
  
He pulled the door back, blinking at the contents inside the small metal compartment.   
There were only two things inside: A sad looking rucksack, littered with scars and hastily repaired stitches, and a picture that had been taped to the inside.   
  
As Josh took the rucksack in a hand, he craned his neck and curiously peered at the photo.   
It looked old, the edges were torn and folded, but despite that, Josh could clearly see a family; Three kids, two parents, the eldest kid was scowling and had a striking resemblance to his grumpy co-worker.   
  
Josh huffed and shifted his attention to the bag in his hands. But just as he began unfastening buttons, the Governor and Doctor Reynolds began a hushed conversation of their own.   
  
Now, Josh wasn't usually nosy, but they were hardly whispering. It was kinda hard not to eavesdrop.   
  
"With all due respect, this is…" Reynolds gave a smooth chuckle, "Ridiculous."   
  
Josh's ears were pricked and picking up every word, no matter how hard he tried to focus on the content's of Pete's extremely boring rucksack-   
  
"They'll hate you for this. You're just wasting your time-"   
  
"I know." The Governor cut in, "But I get paid to run this prison, not to make friends."   
  
Dropping the rucksack back into Pete's locker, Josh closed the small door and diligently moved towards its neighbour.   
  
"Jon Walker." He read out the name on the white strip of paper, announcing it, as protocol demanded.   
He reaches up and swings the door open lazily, staring blankly at the contents; Jon's locker is a little more crowded than Pete's.

 

"And what about me?" Reynolds' voice whispered out again, "My things aren't here, they're in my office. You'd be welcome to-"

"I'm not going through your things." The Governor scoffed, "I trust _you_ , but forty-six officers work here. I can't unconditionally trust all of them."

 

A raincoat, two books, keys, a wallet-  
Josh grabs it and searches the tiny pockets, they're mostly empty, but it's only when Josh opens the pocket that's stuffed with a few dollar bills that he finds a packet.   
  
It's small, square and made of thin plastic. It's filled with white powder.   
  
It's the first intriguing, and probably illegal, thing he's found.

 

"That's not the point. There are better ways of doing things."  
  
"Why do you have to second-guess everything I do?" The Governor snapped, Reynolds' answer was only a smooth sigh.

 

Josh glances back at his superiors, they're too busy with their steadily heating conversation to pay mind to Josh.  
Curling his fingers into a fist around the packet, Josh stuffed it into his pocket. Closing Jon's locker, Josh moved towards the next one and called out the name on the strip of paper.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Patrick was pretty sure he's never done this much laundry in his entire life.

He squinted at the final bundles of sheets and pillowcases, all filthy and sitting inside the washing machine. It felt like he'd been at this for days, every inch of him was tired and achy- but, finally, he was almost at the end.  
  
The room had steadily emptied over the morning, even Joe had disappeared a couple of hours ago. It had taken half an hour for Patrick to notice.   
  
Breathing out a sigh, he shut the door and got to his feet again. He leant on edge of a table, let his eyes fall shut, and yawned.   
This was it, it was almost over; he'd stumble back to his cell after this, and he'd try and sleep for the rest of the day. He almost groaned at the thought of a bed.   
  
The whirring of machines and distant conversation devolved into white noise, and Patrick's already distant thoughts started slipping away, when a cough cut through it all.   
  
On instinct, Patrick jolted awake. He stood straight, eyes wide and a tremor of panic running through him; sleeping on the job was not encouraged here, he'd found that out pretty quickly.   
  
But, by some small miracle, it was Pete standing in front of him.   
There's silence for a few moments, Patrick isn't sure what to say, and Pete seems just as clueless.   
  
A lump lodges in his throat when his eyes fall downwards, gaze catching on the space below Pete's ribs. His nostrils flare, he can still smell the blood.   
And when he smells it, he can feel it on his hands, and on his cheek, and-   
  
Patrick bites his tongue stubbornly.

 

"Uh- How's the…?" His eyes flick back upwards, something about staring at the injury feels rude. Pete's Adam's apple bobs anxiously, and Patrick regrets opening his stupid mouth.

Why couldn't he just have asked how his day was going? Was he getting that socially inept-

"It's fine." Pete gave a small shrug, "Just a flesh wound."  
  
And although it's the perfect opportunity to change the subject, Patrick wanders back into the trap.   
He peers up at Pete, his sleep-puffy eyes are fixed in a squint, "Does it hurt?"   
  
For some reason Patrick can't even begin to understand, the question coaxes a smile out of Pete- along with an amused exhale.   
He shakes his head adamantly, "It just stings a little."   
  
Patrick mirrored him, giving a breathy chuckle while nodding instead.   
  
"I heard you've been fitting in better."   
  
"I guess." Patrick pauses, fighting back a grimace. "Can't be worse than my first week, anyway."   
  
Pete chuckles, a real laugh, not just an exhale paired with a smile- and some part of Patrick's sleep deprived brain decides that yeah, he likes that sound.   
He hardly has the energy for facial expressions, but a broad smile tugs at his mouth anyway.   
  
"I actually came here to-" Pete clears his throat again, his eyes keep darting around like they're chasing an insect flying around the room. When they finally stop, staring squarely at Patrick's shoulder, his face falls and his voice lowers.

 

"I wanted to thank you."

 

Patrick hardly registers it, he blinks his uncoordinated eyes, and cocks his head like a dog not understanding an order.  
  
"I- I mean, I'd probably be dead if you hadn't done what you did." Pete says hurriedly when Patrick only stares at him blankly. "I just appreciate it, a lot. And I didn't get the chance to thank you, so…"   
  
He pauses, eyes finally daring to make contact.   
  
"Thank you."   
  
It all hits Patrick like a tidal wave, and he finds himself sputtering. "I- Thank you- I mean, _you're welcome_ , but-"   
He knits his brow and shakes his head, it feels so cloudy he's not sure if he can even string a sentence together.   
  
No, being a little tired will not make him lose his grasp on the English language.   
Furrowing his brow strictly, Patrick looks up at Pete and nods. "You're welcome. But, I wanted to thank you, as well-"   
  
"I was literally no help."   
  
"Yes, you were!" Patrick throws up his hands in a 'come on' gesture. "If you hadn't explained anything, they would've assumed the worst, and- Christ, who knows what they would've done."   
  
They both fall silent. They're both pretty sure about what would've happened if Pete hadn't managed to explain.   
A dead officer, two injured, an armed convict covered in blood and directly fleeing the crime scene? Patrick hadn't exactly been the picture of innocence.   
  
"I saw Trohman over here, earlier."   
  
Patrick pauses for a second, he's still not used to last names being thrown around like that. "Yeah, we had laundry duty. We were-" He moves to gesture to the noisy washing machine beside them, but Pete interjects.   
  
"Don't trust him." He says quickly, eyes a fraction wider than they were a moment ago.   
It catches Patrick off guard.

 

Seriously, what is he supposed to say to that?

 

"I- What?" He squints at Pete. The officer only hesitates for a moment, but finally, he takes a step towards Patrick. He lowers his voice, ducks his head so their noses are inches apart. "He helped the police. Your cell was bugged. That's-" He seems to struggle again, he shoots a glance over his shoulder, but finally, tells him the rest with a strained sigh. "That's why they took you to the woods."  
  
Patrick blinks. That's not true, he's certain it's not true.   
  
He shakes his head slowly, his brain isn't processing this quickly enough for him to put the pieces together. "No, that can't-"   
  
"I shouldn't be telling you any of this, but I owe you." Pete tells him, his eyes aren't off chasing a speck of dust anymore- they're firmly pinned to Patrick's. "How do you think he got day release? He's always in and out of solitary, he's always getting warnings-"   
  
It makes sense. And Patrick feels like an idiot for not seeing it earlier.   
His eyelids fall closed and he falls back against the edge of the table. Lowering his head, he rubs at his eyes and takes it in.   
It makes sense. Fuck, it makes sense.   
  
"Can I ask you something?"   
  
When Pete's voice comes again, it's quiet. Almost timid.   
Patrick hardly registers nodding in his stupor, but Pete asks his second question regardless.   
  
"What did you shoot at?"   
  
As if Patrick's weary head wasn't already spinning, the question overwrites all of his thoughts and leaves his mind blank.   
He blinks, staring forwards at Pete blankly. It takes him a few seconds to even attempt an answer, and to his chagrin, it doesn't even sound convincing once he finally manages it.   
  
"It was an accident. I've never really- I've never used a gun before, it just-" His sloppy reasoning is punctured by a quiet yawn that has his eyes watering. "It went off by accident."   
  
"That's what you told the cops, but-" Pete gives a small shake of his head, lips quirking into a smile that thinks it knows more than it does. "I don't really buy it."   
  
Patrick isn't usually immovable. It only takes a few nudges and smiles until he's laying out the truth for everybody to see, but-   
Not today, not with this.   
  
"Buy whatever you want." He huffs, crossing his arms lazily and staring up blankly through watery eyes. "That's what happened."

 

 

 

_"Stop!"_ _  
_ _  
_ _Call it panic, but the first thing Patrick did was raise his gun._ _  
_ _Eyes peeled wide and arm shaking, it took him a few seconds to realise who was on the other side of the trigger._ _  
_ _  
_ _"I'm guessing you're Patrick."_ _  
_ _  
_ _Hearing his name come out of the man's mouth made his hair stand on end._ _  
_ _Patrick had never been great at remembering faces, but he didn't need a mugshot for comparison to know who he was._ _  
_ _  
_ _"Brendon, I'm assuming." He rebuts, his voice wavers and it only serves to make the other man chuckle._ _  
_ _  
_ _"Where's the money?" His handgun trembled less than Patrick's, a result of practice he wagered._ _  
_ _  
_ _Patrick glanced to both his sides, and with a chill running over his spine, he realised he…didn't know._ _  
_ _It was so disorienting, all he could see were tall, bending trees, bushes, rocks, dirt- everything looked the same. Shit. Would he even be able to find Pete and the Inspector again? If they bled out, it would all be his fault-_ _  
_ _  
_ _"Are you deaf?" Brendon snapped, jabbing his gun out angrily. "Where's the money?"_ _  
_ _With a jolt of panic in his chest, Patrick tossed his head to his left, "That way."_ _  
_ _  
_ _Brendon paused. His smile dropped, Patrick felt his heart skip a terrified beat._ _  
_ _  
_ _"Turn around. You're coming with me."_ _  
_ _  
_ _"No." Patrick snapped, tipping his chin upwards and glaring at the man in protest._ _  
_ _  
_ _Brendon raised his brow, an amused smile flickering over his mouth. He started moving forwards, Patrick felt every inch of him go cold._ _  
_ _  
_ _"Don't move!" He stumbled back, growling when Brendon only went to take another step forwards. "I know you're out of bullets!"_ _  
_ _  
_ _Raising his eyebrows, Brendon smiled slowly. "Are you sure you wanna test that?"_ _  
_ _  
_ _He took another step forwards. "You're gonna tell me where the money is." And another. "And then you're going back to prison." And another. "Then, you're gonna bring Ryan a message."_ _  
_ _  
_ _"Don't move!" Patrick jumped back and pressed his gun forwards. His nose wrinkled as he hissed, "I'll shoot you, fucking asshole-"_ _  
_ _  
_ _"Fever." Brendon clipped, leaning forwards as he prepared to take another step- completely ignoring the handgun a meter from his face. "You tell him: Fever."_ _  
_ _  
_ _Patrick didn't say a word, he only stared at the other man. Nose wrinkled, hands shaking, a tremor coursing through his veins. He'd never felt so alive and terrified all at once._ _  
_ _  
_ _"Now give me the-" Brendon lurched forwards. His free arm struck out like a viper, making a grab for the gun._ _  
_ _  
_ _Patrick pulled the trigger. He barely heard the gunshot over the heartbeat thundering in his ears._

 

 

 

 

Brendon stared down at the couch, eyes stuck on the small hole the bullet had made.

With slow, collected steps, he rounded it. Eyes flicking back and forth as he searched for the exit wound.  
  
The stuffing was blackened, singed, and pouring out of the small tear, but there was a complete absence of what was usually found at murder scenes.

 

Blood.

 

He'd missed. He'd completely fucking missed.

 

He’d known it before he’d even rounded the couch to check. Brendon looked down at the person that lay on the couch. Still very much alive, and still very much unaware of how close she'd been to dying.  
  
It was a woman, curled up in a blanket. One of her hands dangled towards the floor, she'd dropped the picture frame that had clattered to the floor.   
  
Brendon only spared it a glance; Three children standing at the front of the house. His eyes flickered over to the coffee table.   
  
A half-full glass of water sat on a coaster. But more importantly, there was a small, white, plastic pill bottle. With a gloved hand, he picked it up and spun it in his fingers.   
Squinting down at the text on the back of the label, a tiny smile quirked at the corners of his lips.

 

'Side effects: Dry mouth or throat, headaches, dizziness, drowsiness -'

 

His eyes lit up.  
That was all he needed to read; She was knocked out, and she'd remember nothing. There was no point in turning this home invasion into a murder.   
  
Brendon huffed bemusedly, and set the bottle back down on the glass with a gentle click. He glanced up at the small bullet hole in the cushion. He tucked the blanket that was slung on the back of the couch over it, and with that, he moved away- leaving the woman to her sleep.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ryan was still on cleaning duty, apparently.  
  
As Patrick folded the last dry batch of laundry- telling himself that it was almost over every time he set another sheet aside, he watched as Ryan moved across the room.   
  
The man was pulling the cleaning cart, stacked with mops, buckets and bottles, behind him with a sour look on his face; Laundry day also meant 'Cleaning day', and as expected, Ryan's workload was huge.   
  
As he watched Ryan miserably dunk the mop in a bucket of water, Patrick bit down on the inside of his cheek.   
  
His 'message' for Ryan- as brief and vague as it was, had been niggling at the back of his mind since he'd returned from the forest.   
It had only been Pete's questioning that had reminded him that yes, he had been actively avoiding passing the word onto Ryan ever since.   
  
Patrick glanced back around the rest of the room. It was completely empty, apart from the two of them. Even the officers had gotten fed up and left.   
Joe was long gone, and Pete had left as quickly as he'd came.   
  
"Ryan."   
  
The other prisoner froze. His fists flexed around the mop handle, knuckles flashing white for a moment.   
Then, with a slow movement that reminded Patrick of a lion surveying a baby antelope with a broken leg, Ryan turned to stare at him.   
  
In a minuscule movement, he tossed his head in a silent question.   
  
"I've got a message for you." Patrick pushed another neatly folded pillow case onto the pile at his side.   
  
"From who?" Ryan rolled his eyes slowly. Smiling lazily, Patrick assumed Ryan kinda wanted to slap him across the face right now.   
  
Over the past few weeks, Patrick had decided that Ryan was really not as intimidating as he made himself out to be. Watching him mope around all day, mopping floors sadly and pouting in the corner like a toddler all day did nothing for his big bad reputation.   
  
So, with a nonchalant air about him, Patrick shrugged and got back to work folding the sheets beside him.

 

"From Brendon."

 

But even Ryan's diminished reputation couldn't kill his curiosity. Like his eyes were possessed to watch, they shifted up to the side and pinned to Ryan.  
  
"What is it?" Ryan said tightly, his task of mopping the dusty concrete floor completely forgotten.   
  
Patrick's smiled broadened; He knew he was being a little shit, but Ryan deserved it for being an astronomical dickhead.   
He squinted and stared into space, tilting his head and feigning that just he couldn't remember.   
Patrick was just about to kill the suspense and give Ryan his stupid message, when-   
  
A hand gripped his neck. Before he could even process it, he was shoved against a wall.   
  
Patrick's hands jumped to the one around his neck. He tried to pry the fingers off, but a second hand joined the first. Every breath he took burned.   
All he could see was Ryan's eyes glaring into his own. All he could feel were Ryan's fingers digging into his throat.

 

" _What is it_?"

 

Patrick tried to answer him, he would've said anything to stop his hands tightening.   
  
"Fever." He managed to rasp out. He dug his nails into the skin of Ryan's fingers, and finally, he was released.   
Patrick dropped against the wall like a rag doll, he only managed one wheezing breath before Ryan throttled him once again with newfound vigor.   
  
Patrick instantly choked.   
He clawed at Ryan's hands uselessly, and tried to writhe. Nothing worked, and Ryan seemed unaffected. He squeezes at the bones in Patrick's throat until the other prisoner is barely croaking out breaths and turning blue.   
  
When his breathing skips and his eyelids droop, Ryan lets him go.   
  
Patrick makes an incoherent noise that vaguely sounds like 'fuck', and collapses.   
Holding himself up on shaky forearms and taking desperate breathes through a molten throat, Patrick can only listen as he hears Ryan pace the meter in front of him.   
  
"Where was he?" Ryan hissed, and this time, Patrick decided not to test him.   
  
"The forest." He slurred, falling back onto his shins and pressing his hands to the floor.   
Ryan's answer was a shaky, furious exhale. Panic flared in the pit of his stomach when Ryan grabbed the back of his collar and tugged him to his feet with one rough movement.   
  
Ryan's eyes bored into his, calmer and less red than Patrick's. "And why didn't you tell me immediately?"   
  
"I don't know-" Patrick rasped quickly, eyes struggling to stay open.   
Ryan paused, nostrils flaring and gaze becoming a lot sharper.

 

"Did you shoot him?"

 

When Patrick took a second too long to answer, Ryan pushed him against the wall. A second later, a fist jabbed into Patrick's ribs, so hard and so loud Patrick was sure he'd shattered them all.  
  
"Did you shoot him?" Ryan snapped again, but this time, Patrick couldn't even try giving him an answer.   
He could only stand there, slumped against the wall and grabbing at his ribs with adrenaline-trembling hands.   
  
In one, sudden movement, Ryan moved away.   
  
Patrick took his chance and stumbled away, pressing his back to the table still stacked with laundry. He took his chance to regain his composure, recovering the all air he'd been robbed of in the last few minutes.   
  
Standing a mere meter away from him, Ryan glanced over at Patrick.   
  
"Did you shoot him?" Ryan asked a third time.   
  
It was completely different, he was completely different.   
Call it a mood swing, but Ryan's anger was gone. His voice was quiet, his shoulders drooped, his eyes were damp. But as sad and worried Ryan looked, Patrick wasn't a fucking goldfish; He had not forgotten about almost being the second murder victim in the laundry room.   
  
"No-" Patrick shook his head, wiping his watery eyes with the back of his sleeve. "No, I didn't fucking shoot him."   
  
With those words, Ryan's face fell.   
  
He lurched towards Patrick, rage exploding back onto his features as he fisted a hand into his shirt.   
Ryan stared down at Patrick, eyes dull but frame trembling all over with unadulterated fury.   
  
"Look at me." Ryan snapped, "If you're lying to me-"   
  
"I'm not." Patrick hissed, meeting Ryan's furious gaze with enough anger of his own.   
Patrick was well and truly over being strangled and beaten up in shadowy corners.   
  
"If you hurt him." Ryan continued, as though Patrick's protest had been nothing but a fly buzzing around him. A squint thinned out his eyes, his voice shook with unbridled anger. "I promise you, I'll find your girlfriend."   
Patrick could barely register the words, he stared, his mind completely white and stalling. Ryan lowered his head a little further, "I'll cut her open, I'll take your kid, and I swear to fucking _god_ , I'll burn it."

 

 

_"Now give me the-” Brendon lurched forwards. His free arm struck out like a viper, making a grab for the gun._ _  
_ _  
_ _Patrick pulled the trigger. He barely heard the gunshot over the heartbeat thundering in his ears._ _  
_ _  
_ _Brendon stood there, face covered in blank shock._ _  
_ _  
_ _Face completely blanched, Patrick scanned over him. He couldn't believe it, there was no way he'd-_ _  
_ _  
_ _There was no blood, Brendon wasn't falling to his knees and giving a dramatic monologue-_ _  
_ _  
_ _He was…alive. And uninjured._ _  
_ _  
_ _He'd missed._ _  
_ _  
_ _Brendon was a foot away, and he'd missed._ _  
_ _  
_ _Patrick was frozen, arms still outstretched, gun still clasped in his fingers, Brendon on the other side of the trigger._ _  
_ _The other man seemed just as shocked as he did. He raised his dark eyes to Patrick, and before he could even say a word or slip his index finger back into the trigger-_ _  
_ _  
_ _Brendon ran._ _  
_ _  
_ _It only took seconds before he disappeared into the trees, and no matter how hard Patrick squinted or strained his eyes, he couldn't see any trace of the man. It was like he'd never even been there at all- spare a few smudged footprints in the dirt._ _  
_ _  
_ _Staring down at those panicked, messy tracks, a realization sunk in._ _  
_ _  
_ _Patrick could've killed him. If he hadn't missed that easy shot, if he'd just aimed a little more to the right-_ _  
_ _  
_ _Any semblance of pride was washed away by guilt, guilt like he'd never felt it before. It felt like a weight had fallen on him, it felt like he could barely speak- let alone breathe._ _  
_ _  
_ _Breath trembling, his arm falters and he drops it. Brendon was long gone, he had to make a break for it- Pete and the Inspector, bleeding out somewhere in this infernal forest, flood back into his mind._ _  
_ _  
_ _His knees are shakier than they've ever been before, but Patrick forces himself to run._ _  
_ _Everything's blurry, and everything hurts. He falls a few times, he can feel his pulse in his kneecaps, but everything is a blur._ _  
_ _In fact, he only really understands what's going on, when a loud, harsh voice orders him to:_ _  
_ _  
_ _"Stop right there!"_

 

 

Patrick woke up with a jolt and a jackhammering heart, his mind was full of trees, blood and brown eyes.  
  
It takes a few blinks and frantic glances, but he quickly realizes that he's safe. Or, as safe as he can be. He's in his cell, in his bunk, buried under his blanket. Nobody's bleeding out, nobody's chasing him through a forest.   
  
Patrick groaned and clamped his eyes shut, burying his face in the crook of his elbow.   
As the recurring nightmare of the forest faded from his head, and real life re-asserted itself once again, Patrick only felt worse.   
  
If possible, his actual life had taken a worse turn than his dreams ever could.   
  
It had been two days since Ryan's threat, and his words had haunted Patrick every second, of every minute, of every hour since then.   
  
The worst part was that it wasn't even logical.   
Ryan was a prisoner. There was no way he could escape to exact revenge on Elisa and their unborn child. He didn't even know where she lived! Ryan was in here, she was out there; She was safe, Ryan would rot behind bars for the rest of his life.   
If Patrick had really supposedly killed Brendon, there wouldn't even be anyone to do his fucked up bidding on the outside.

 

And yet.

 

Patrick went cold every time he thought about it.  
Ryan was capable, and Patrick had been wrong to underestimate him in the past. Anger was the best motivator, and Ryan was, _apparently_ , furious 24/7.   
  
Pressing his palms over his eyes, Patrick exhaled slowly, in an effort to calm his heart; It had been thundering like a jackhammer for two days straight, Patrick was no doctor, but he was pretty sure that wasn't healthy.   
  
One of his hands slipped downwards, landing lightly on the side of his neck. He winced as he pressed his fingers down into his pulse point.   
It hurt like a bitch; Ryan had left him a couple of bruises on his throat and left set of ribs. He was pretty sure nothing was broken, but goddamn if it didn't hurt.   
  
Every time someone bumped into him, every time he grazed them or bumped them against a corner, he'd practically double over and take a full minute to recover.   
  
He sighed longingly. What he wouldn't give for a couple of painkillers.   
Problem was, he knew the Doctor wouldn't give them up without something in return.   
  
His lip curled into a weak scowl.   
  
He was actually starting to consider it.   
  
At first, Patrick hadn't assumed he'd be getting beaten to a pulp every week, but as time had gone on, he'd started accepting that he just had a punchable face.   
  
It hurt, badly. And coupled with a lack of sleep, they took longer to heal.   
And without even mentioning how achy his muscles were, his frequent yawning, the tremors that would suddenly seize his arms and legs- Patrick really fucking needed medical attention.   
  
Maybe he could coax a 'two for one' type of deal out of Reynolds. A lifetime supply of Xanax and painkillers, for the one…thing.   
He grimaced viscerally at the thought; God fucking damn it, why was the one doctor in this place like this? He shouldn't have to be considering this.   
  
Dropping his arm to the side, Patrick lazily crooked open his eyes and glanced around at the cell, lit up by the sunlight flooding in through the window.   
  
He gave a sigh. No, he shouldn't have to be considering this. It was illegal, neglectful and abusive by every standard, but what fucking choice did he have?

 

 

Patrick argued with himself for the whole walk to the medical bay.  
Pros, cons, assurances- all of them were shut up the moment he came to a stop in front of the Doctor's office door.   
  
With aching, red eyes, he stared at the name on the door. A chill ran over his spine, his jaw tightened, he clamped his teeth down on his tongue.   
  
Show time, he supposed.   
  
With a hesitant grimace on his face, Patrick weakly lifted his hand and balled it into a fist. It hovered there for a moment, on standby as he gulped and tried to mentally prepare himself somewhat.   
  
He finally rapped his knuckles on the door, dropped his hand to his side, and waited.   
Two seconds later, he heard the call, loud and in the politest tone possible.   
  
"Come in!"   
  
Patrick gave a final sharp exhale, opening the door and slipping through a moment later.   
He tried to keep his face as blank as possible, visibly showing his intense disgust for the other man wasn't the best tactic here.   
  
"Good morning, Patrick." Reynolds looks up at him from the neat papers on his desk. He folds his hands on the table, just as precisely and knits his brow slightly. "How can I help you?"   
  
Pretending nothing had ever happened? Patrick could do that too.   
  
"I uh…" He sighs, he can't help it. "I've got a few bruises." He gestures to his neck sheepishly; The bruises are there, blue, purple and angry, undercut with red.   
"I was- I need painkillers." He finished, Adam's apple struggling to bob past the lump in his throat.   
  
The Doctor squinted at him for a moment, but his expression quickly reeled back into normalcy seconds later.   
"I see." He tilted his head slightly, "And, is that all?"   
  
Patrick holds back a sigh, "I'm also having trouble sleeping."   
He almost grimaces as the Doctor's lips quirk upwards knowingly.   
  
"And would that be nightmares, or, more along the lines of, say, insomnia?"   
  
Patrick balls his fists and lets the nails cut into his palms. "Insomnia." He grits out, the Doctor is mocking him at this point, making him beg for help- once again.   
  
The older man was silent for a few moments, eyes locked on Patrick's and filled with a look that chilled him to the bone.   
  
"Of course. I understand." Reynolds nods smoothly, Patrick isn't sure whether to sigh in relief or brace himself for whatever he'll say next.   
And of course, the Doctor just has to keep speaking.   
  
"The problem is, you're not the only inmate that's suffering from insomnia." Reynolds stands, and paces a half circle around Patrick. "It's much more severe for the others."   
  
The door locks, and Patrick tenses up.   
It's usually a quiet sound, a soft click, but it sounds like a fucking gunshot to him right now.   
  
"My supplies are limited, I have to prioritize certain cases."   
  
The doctor turned towards him, eyes lowered in that infuriating, condescending way that would've have Patrick scowling if he just wasn't so tired.   
  
Sure, he hadn't slept properly in weeks, but he wasn't just tired in the sleep deprivation sense.   
He wanted- no, needed medical care, he couldn't nurse bruises and fractures back to health by himself. And fuck, what if one of these days, Ryan broke one of his bones? He'd need help.   
  
It was a sacrifice now, that would pay off later.   
  
It took all the energy Patrick had left to lift his head, straighten his spine and look up at the Doctor.   
The older man smiled.   
  
"You know what I like about you?"   
  
Patrick says nothing, he forces his eyes to stay open and stare ahead.   
Doctor Reynolds raises his brow, tipping his head towards the prisoner in a stiff nod, "You're a lot stronger than you look."   
  
Patrick holds back a scoff, and fights down the urge to bolt out of the room. Sacrifice now, pay off later. He was definitely gonna get beaten up again at some point, and if his injuries were serious, he'd need help. He'd need help.   
  
The Doctor's expression had dropped.   
He was still staring at Patrick, but his eyes were dull and his head was tipped in an expectant, bored sort of way.   
  
Patrick supposed that was his cue.   
He held back a roll of his eyes, a hissed exhale, and everything between.   
  
Burying his head, Patrick narrowed his red eyes into slits and slipped down to his knees. He kept his head down, looking up would definitely not end well right now; He could taste bile in the back of his throat.   
  
He presses his hands to the floor, it's tiled- unlike everywhere else, where concrete is the preferred material, and puts all his focus on how cold it is.   
It's a welcome distraction, he shifts his weight onto his kneecaps and focuses on how much they ache; They've been sore since the forest, the bruises on them are in their final, yellow stages.   
  
Finally, when Patrick trusts himself not to throw up the moment he looks up at Reynolds, he lifts his head and squints up at the man.   
  
Reynolds' expression was unchanged.   
No leniency, no mercy; If Patrick wanted a full, painless sleep, he'd have to go through with it.   
  
In what he guessed was supposed to be an encouraging gesture, Reynolds lay his hand on the side of Patrick's head. And just like that, Patrick gags.   
  
It's quiet, but he has to gulp and close his eyes for a few moments to regain his composure. He's pretty sure throwing up over the Doctor isn't going to get him painkillers or Xanax.   
  
His arms almost give out when he reaches up, and curls his fingers around the belt inches from his nose. Fuck, how did he end up like this? This had to be rock-fucking-bottom, but a horrible feeling in Patrick's gut told him that it could still get worse.   
  
Although taking it slowly was giving him much appreciated time, it also made the lump in Patrick's throat and the swirling in his gut unbearable. It was also making Reynolds impatient.   
  
He jerks his hips forwards, and it takes everything in Patrick not to shove him away and run out of the room.   
He allows himself another exhale and furrows his brow, undoing the belt with shaking fingers. When he finally grips the fly and prepares himself to tug it downwards, Patrick realizes his vision is really blurry.   
  
It had already been hazy for a couple of days, red, puffy eyes thanks to a lack of sleep and whatnot, but-   
  
With his free hand, he brushes at his left eye. It's leaking like Niagara Falls.   
  
As if the shame of this entire situation wasn't stifling enough, he was crying. Again.   
Fuck, he hadn't cried in weeks, he'd been doing so well-   
  
He dried both with eyes with his sleeve, his right was still gripping the older man's fly zipper.   
As much as Patrick berated himself for not bottling his emotions, he could hardly blame himself right now; This was, just about, the lowest point in his existence.   
  
With a sniff and a sharp movement, he tugged the zipper downwards.   
But, when he found himself gagging once more, he couldn't help but drop his head and make an effort to console himself.   
  
His head and thoughts were so blurry that he could hardly put his thoughts into logical, understandable order.   
  
He wiped his eyes and nose on the back of his sleeve, his jaw was clenched and tense. He felt like a mess, he probably looked like one too.   
Patrick found himself staring at the tiles beyond Reynolds, and a few moments later, he realized he'd started speaking.   
  
It was babbled nonsense, maybe it was some kind of reflex, maybe it was supposed to distract or comfort himself. He slumps back, starts rubbing at his jaw; It's been tense the past couple of days, but right now, it feels like it's about to reach breaking point.   
He whines in the back of his throat as he rubs at the bone, "It just hurts really bad, y'know? I don't- Fuck, I'm gonna break my jaw at some point, it's gonna hurt so bad, I already-"   
  
"Wait."   
  
Patrick did as he said, he was glad to. But curiosity made him glance upwards.   
What? Did he change his mind? Did his morality just wake up from its thousand-year-slumber?   
  
The man's brow was furrowed, "What were you saying?"   
  
Patrick sniffed and shrugged, too caught up in his emotions to care or ask questions. "I'm gonna break my jaw at some point, y'know? I clench my jaw a lot, when I'm stressed and stuff. I cracked two of my teeth 'cause of it, when I was a kid. I can't really control it, it's just a reflex, and-"   
  
The doctor's expression hardens, his eyes sharpen.   
  
There's a moment of stillness, but then Reynolds was jumping back and pushing him away with shove.   
  
Patrick slumped back, watching wordlessly as the man re-fixes his fly and belt. There was a poisonous scowl on the Doctor's face.   
  
It took a few blinks and a few seconds for Patrick to comprehend what was going on. He'd changed his mind. Had he taken too long? Was it something he'd-   
  
_Said_.   
  
Right.   
  
His habit of clenching his jaw in stressful situations wasn't a reassuring thing to hear, no wonder Reynolds was staring at him like he'd spontaneously grown two heads.

 

"You'll have to deal it yourself. I'm not giving you anything."

 

Those words were the exact opposite of what he'd been hoping to hear when he'd walked in here, but somehow, Patrick couldn't bring himself to care.  
With an absent nod, he jumped to his feet and left the room, not even turning back to look at the Doctor once.

 

 

 

 

 

 

David had never liked arguing with his wife.  
They'd never had many serious disputes, there were little disagreements over trivial things, but huge, messy fights had never really been their way of doing things.   
  
There was a first time for everything, however, and this was the first time that Patricia hadn't spoken to him in days.   
  
Even when work or visits took them across the country, there had never been absolute radio silence between them. It had never been this bad.   
David tried talking to her at first; As soon as they got home from meeting their lawyer, he'd tried to tell her the…not so brilliant news. She'd blanked him completely.   
And it just kept happening, the next two days were completely silent between them.   
  
So, seeing as she refused to take part in their situation or their problems, David had made a decision by himself.   
  
The money she'd brought back- their family's money, they couldn't use it to pay bail or lawyers. It wasn't enough, and it was too much all at once.   
He wouldn't be responsible for robbing his family and in-laws of their savings, this wasn't their problem to deal with, after all.   
  
No, David would deal with this himself.   
  
The cops had started clearing out of the forest, they'd already collected as many DNA samples as was possible to drag out of dirt and bark, there wasn't much reason for them to stay.   
This time, things would go smoothly.   
Ryan's accomplice wouldn't be there. The police wouldn't be there. It would just be him, a shovel, and the stolen millions buried beneath the rocks.   
  
David stood in the garage, staring up at the boxes labelled 'Christmas decorations'. His gaze dragged towards the leftmost cardboard box, it looked so innocuous.   
Nobody would've expected it to be stuffed to the brim with money, not to mention the keys to finding a fortune.   
  
He exhales sharply, shakes his head, and pulls it down.   
It's big, it's heavy, so David quickly drops it to the floor and crouches down after it.   
  
He pulled back the cardboard, and all he could see were decorations.   
It's a flurry of red, green and gold, but in the mess of it all, David can't see any money, pictures or maps.   
  
Panic sets in immediately.   
  
With a heavy gulp, David rifled through the contents with hands that were steadily getting shakier. His desperation flared up every time he grabbed a handful of something that wasn't paper.   
He double checks, and when that pulls up nothing, he triple checks. Finally, he tips everything out onto the floor, eyes peeled wide as he scans the mess at his feet.   
  
The money isn't there. The map is gone. The pictures are missing.   
  
David stood, clawing the other two boxes down from the shelves. He searched them in the same way, raking through every single trinket, only to find absolutely nothing.

 

"Dad, dinner's ready."

 

David can't glance back at Kevin, he's too fixated on the disaster at his feet. His thoughts are too sluggish and slow, and all he can bring himself to do is stare down in horror.  
  
"Dad?" Kevin tries again, when he hears his son's footsteps approach, David can't help but bury his face in his hands.   
It's gone. It's all gone. They can't pay everyone back, they can't even pay their lawyer-   
  
"Dad, what's up?" Kevin says quietly, raking his eyes across the decorations strewn about the floor.   
Slowly, David drags his hands down and drops them by his sides, he can only stare down at the ground; All his determination is melting away, he can't even bring himself to explain it all to Kevin.   
  
It's all gone, and David has a gut feeling about who's fault it is.

"Will you just talk to me?" Kevin snaps again, sounding remarkably like his Mom.

 

"It's gone."

 

That's all David can bring himself to say, the scene explains itself perfectly.  
It only takes Kevin seconds after that, David can hear the panic in his voice.   
  
"Wait, wait- No, it can't be." With a thud that sounds painful, Kevin drops to his knees and searches. The wooden trinkets, the plastic decorations, the empty boxes- but it all led to the same devastating answer.

 

"It's all gone." Kevin shook his head, "I don't understand."  
  
"It was Brendon. I know it was-"

 

"What?" Head whipping around to look up at him, Kevin stared at his Dad with a knitted brow. "Are you sure?"  
David can't help scowling down at the empty boxes, "The map and the pictures are gone too, if this was just a random robbery, they wouldn't have-"   
  
"Fuck!" Kevin stumbles to his feet, he's fuming and David can practically see the smoke firing out of his nose.   
"Why are you so calm?!" He snaps, "How the fuck are we gonna pay his bail?! How- How are we gonna pay the lawyers?!"   
  
David watches as Kevin grips his hair with his hands, tugging on the strands in pure frustration. "We can't leave Patrick in there, Dad." He grits out after a few moments of silence, his voice almost breaks when he tries to speak again. "We can't-"   
  
It's like an electric shock when David moves past his son, and grabs a shovel from the corner of the room. He tosses it into the boot of the car with a loud clang.

 

"Dad?"

 

He says nothing as he ducks into the driver's seat, and he's just tugging his seatbelt into place when Kevin drops into the passenger seat. David half-considers telling him to get out, the last thing he needs is both of his sons in mortal danger.  
  
"Where are we going?" Kevin stares at him intently, he's determined to come with, and David doesn't know whether to feel proud or terrified.   
"To the forest." David jams his keys into the ignition, the car roars to life, and panic flares up in his chest once again.   
  
"Wait- What if he's there?" Kevin appeals, "He's already killed a cop-"   
  
"I'm going to the forest." David's knuckles are paper white as he grips the steering wheel, "I'm going to find the money, and I'm going to pay Patrick's bail."   
He glances at his son, he raises his brow. "I can do this alone, Kevin. You don't have to come."   
  
Kevin blinks, and for a fleeting moment, David is certain he's going to get out of the car.   
He makes his decision in a split second; Kevin leans back in the passenger seat, crosses his arms, and nods once.   
  
"Drive."

 

 

When they reach the forest, David nods at the glove box that sits in front of Kevin. "Open that."  
  
Kevin, who had silent for the entire drive, finally scoffs when he opens the small compartment. "Another gun?" He picks up the small, silver revolver that sits on top of a few old receipts and papers. Kevin glances at his Dad and shakes his head in a disapproving sort of way, "How many guns do you have?"   
  
David shrugs innocently, "A few."

 

"Does Mom know?"

 

Clearing his throat, David between his son and the revolver, "Let's just keep this between us, alright?" Kevin scoffs again, but there's a smile quirking at the corners of his mouth when he finally nods. "You got it."  
  
The car comes to a stop at the edge of the treeline.   
Silence steels between them as they clamber out, and David can already feel the paranoia sinking in; He glances around at their surroundings more than a dozen times as he goes to fetch the shovel.   
  
Kevin seems to be struggling with the same kind of jumpiness.   
He keeps glancing over his shoulder, spinning back nervously at every few seconds. His eyes dart around the trees wildly, he only stops when David calls to him.   
  
"Let's get moving."   
  
Finding the rock isn't as easy. Their map is gone, and all they've got to rely on is Kevin's not-so-great internet signal and a couple of digital maps and pictures.   
It's not easy to get on the right trail, and every time Kevin stops, then leads them in another wildly different direction, David has to bite his tongue.   
  
They haven't got any time to waste, Ryan's accomplice knew-   
  
"It's over there, it's just across this path!"   
  
Finally, Kevin isn't looking at the screen anymore. He's pointing at the back of the large boulder, his eyes are wide and lit up, and David can't help it when he runs over.   
  
He rounds the rock as Kevin jogs up behind him. With a sweep of his head, he stares down at the ground underneath, and-   
  
"Fuck."   
  
It's breathless, it's devastated, it's all David feared. He hears Kevin give a frustrated yell and begin pacing around.   
  
In front of the boulder, down in the mossy, rough grass, there's only a hole.

 

 

 

 

 

 

There's too much light.  
  
Patrick glares at the yellowy light that hits the wall beside him, it's too bright, it makes his eyes ache. Even if he closes them, he can still see it through his eyelids. It's pissing him off.   
  
Patrick needs sleep like he needs oxygen, but the man on the bunk over his doesn't seem to understand that.   
It's been like this for an hour, Patrick clenches his jaw, curls his fists, tenses his shoulders. He debates telling Joe to shut the fucking light off already, he's getting closer to that point every time he hears the pages of the other man's book flip.   
  
He glances up towards the other side of the small room.   
Andy and Frank don't seem to mind, they're both quiet and, Patrick assumes, asleep.   
  
He rubs at his gritty eyes, scowls, and bites down on the inside of his lip until he tastes iron. If only it were that fucking easy.   
  
Joe flips another page. The slide of the paper is so loud, and Patrick decides he can't stand it anymore.

 

" _Fucking stop already_." He growls, just quietly enough so it won't wake the others, just loud enough so Joe hears him loud and clear.   
  
He hears the other inmate pause, and a second later, Joe is leaning down over the edge of his mattress. He stares down at Patrick with a knitted brow and a tight frown, "What's your problem?"

"I'm trying to sleep." Patrick spits, leaning up on a forearm, "Your reading light is really fucking distracting."

Joe rolls his eyes, "Suck it up. I'm trying to finish a chapter, besides- you owe me."

"Oh-" Patrick scoffs, "I owe you?"  
  
"Uh- _yeah_ , yeah you do." Joe gestures to his ribs as best he can from the awkward position he's in, "Do I have to remind you about that stupid key card? Or your phone? Or the money?"

 

"You sold me out." Patrick snaps, "You had our fucking cell bugged, and you sold me out. I almost died because of you. As far as I'm concerned, I owe you jack shit."

 

And just like that, Joe's eyes widen and his breathing hitches. He blinks. It takes him a few seconds to regain his composure.

 

"What would you have done?" He whispers, clearing his throat when it comes out as little more than a rasp. "If a cop had walked up to you and told you they'd let you go, what would you have done?"  
  
Patrick forgets he can speak for a moment. He stares at Joe, uselessly silent, but the other man only hisses again.   
  
"You would've done exactly what I did. We're not that different, Patrick. You're no better than anyone in here." Joe shakes his head, an agitated scoff tumbling out of his mouth. "You're always whining about 'how you shouldn't be here', how 'it's all a big mistake'-"   
  
He cranes his neck, he looks Patrick squarely in the eyes.

 

"It's not a mistake. You stole. You committed fraud, and you got caught. That's how it works, dickhead."

 

Patrick can't listen to him anymore.  
  
"Fuck off, Joe." He sighs out, shaking his head as he flips onto his other side. He'd do just about anything to not look Joe in the eye right now. "Just turn the fucking light off."

 

 

 

Patrick finds himself standing in the doorway of Ryan's cell, the next morning.   
  
Ryan gives him a once over, and smirks. "Well, _you_ look like shit."   
Patrick is extremely aware of that; He's exhausted, has no appetite, and hasn't brushed his hair for three weeks. He only stares at Ryan, pinning all his focus on keeping his balance.   
  
"What's wrong with you?" Ryan scoffs quietly, peering at him curiously over the top of his book.

 

"I've been thinking."

 

"How dangerous."

 

"I didn't tell you the truth."

 

The moment the words hit the air, Ryan's smile drops. His eyes fix on Patrick.

"I guess I was trying to forget about it, denying it, or whatever." Patrick takes a slow step forwards, it takes all his balance not to sway. It's way too early in the morning for him, and he's still sleep-drunk.

 

"I tried to kill Brendon in the forest."

 

And to his surprise, Ryan shows restraint.

He doesn't jump up, lurch towards him, his hands don't try to break the bones in Patrick's neck. Instead, he stays still. He watches him, like a starved cat watching a bird with a broken wing.  
  
"I shot to kill. I was ready to kill him." Patrick exhaled noisily, his head lolls to the side sleepily. He shrugs. "I missed."

 

And Ryan _sighs_.

 

It's a sigh of relief, but it's so visceral and desperate it makes Patrick's chest ache. The emotion only lasts for a second, however. Soon enough, Ryan is back to staring at him like he's slitting his throat with his eyes.  
  
"I'm not a murderer." Patrick defends, pausing for a moment as he turns his stare into a glare. "But I could be."   
  
Everything is still for a moment.   
They can only stare at each other, the silence ringing in their ears and the freshly spoken words weighing on their minds. It's only when Ryan slams his book shut, that the world jumps into motion again.   
  
He jumps from his bunk. He moves towards Patrick.   
Ryan stops when they're less than a meter apart, his Adam's apple works overtime as he gives a strangled gulp. "What do you want?"   
  
Patrick shrugs again, it's a slow and tired movement. "Don't you wanna know why I did it?"   
Ryan says nothing, but Patrick decides he's going to tell him anyway. "It's wasn't because I hate you, or, because I wanted the money."   
  
Ryan's bearing down on him now, it's less 'cat stalking its prey', and more 'wolf about to tear out a deer's throat'.   
  
"It was for me."   
  
Ryan's nose wrinkles like he's seconds away from a snarl. Patrick can't even try matching Ryan's furious stare anyway, so he concedes.   
He drops the glare, stares at him blankly, and somehow, it feels easier.   
  
"I don't want to die, Ryan. I don't plan on dying. I can be like you, if I have to be."   
  
Ryan instantly shakes his head, a smile that's slowly getting wider is playing on the corners of his mouth. "No, you're not like me."   
He gives Patrick a full blown chuckle, and stuffs his hands in his pockets a little too nonchalantly. "For starters, I have nothing to lose."   
  
Patrick tilts his head, furrows his brow, and just manages to breath out a laugh. It's almost as though Ryan has forgotten the last five minutes. "Are you sure about that?"

 

 

 

 

 

 

Patrick's still running on the adrenaline by the time noon rolls around.

The canteen is just about cleared by this point, and Patrick winds up at a table all by himself. He prefers it that way, he still feels on edge, and far too cocky, from his chat with Ryan.  
  
He's halfway done with a glass of juice that tastes more like sugar than fruit, when he feels a tap on his shoulder.   
  
He twists in his seat and nearly jumps at the sight of a tall inmate hovering over him.

 

Patrick almost gasps at him; He's in bad shape.  
  
He's pale, sallow even, and he's gazing blankly with a thousand-yard stare that makes a chill run down Patrick's spine.

He's littered with bruises, the ones on his forehead and the bridge of his nose look particularly angry. A band-aid on his cheek, and a line of stitches under his chin, he's wincing every few seconds like he's running high on caffeine or something.  
  
Patrick waits for him to say something, but the seconds stretch into moments, and when Patrick can't stand the silence anymore, he furrows his brow and shrugs at him.

 

"What?"

 

"My uh- My name's Dallon. Ryan sent me." He says hurriedly, his head keeps twitching downwards and it's starting to remind Patrick of a beaten dog. "I'm supposed to help you, for a week."  
  
Patrick can't help but squint at him. "You're joking."   
  
The other man shakes his head slowly, scratching at his own knuckles nervously. "He doesn't want any animosity, I think- That's what he said, anyway."   
His voice trails off into a mutter, and when it raises again, he's trailed off-subject entirely. "-I can make your bed, or do your laundry, or-"   
  
"Stop!" Patrick snaps, the wince Dallon gives makes him regret it.   
He gives a cut-off sigh, he's trying to be understanding but he keeps failing miserably; Fuck, he feels bad for this guy, but he still doesn't want someone trailing around after him for an entire week.   
  
Patrick stifles a sigh and gives the man a slow nod, "I don't need any of that, I'm fine."   
  
He notices how he shrinks back on himself, and he can't help but glance at the bruise on his forehead and the band-aid on his cheek again.

 

Patrick drops his head and pinches the bridge of his nose.

 

_Fuck_.

 

"I- Look." Pushing himself up to stand on his palms, Patrick turns to Dallon and reaches up, patting him on the shoulder awkwardly. "Tell Ryan I appreciate the… _gesture_ , I guess- but I don't need any help."   
  
"He'll get mad at me." Dallon grits out a shaky whisper, he's trembling all over, and Patrick wonders how long it's been since he's slept properly. It's been a while, if the deep lines under his eyes are of any consequence.   
  
"Please. I'm begging you." Dallon pleads, lowering his voice to a whisper and leaning forwards just a hair, like he's afraid Ryan will hear him from his cell. "I'll stay out, of your way, I won't even speak, I swear. Just don't send me back to him."   
  
Patrick doesn't want someone simpering after him…but he's not sufficiently heartless to send Dallon back to Ryan for a fresh set of bruises and stitches.   
It's only a week, he keeps chanting to himself, seven days that'll pass by before he even knows it.   
  
"Fine." He clips with a tiny nod, moving past Dallon with an intention towards the door. He can't help gritting his teeth when he hears Dallon's footsteps behind him.   
Patrick glances back over his shoulder, nose wrinkling pitifully as he catches sight of the stitches again. "Just…hang back a little, alright?"   
  
Dallon's eager nod only makes him sigh.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pete couldn't help scowling down at the disorderly pile of letters on the small, metal table.

This had to be the most boring task he'd ever been forced into, but the Governor had insisted that it was absolutely necessary.  
  
It seemed kind of invasive, in Pete's opinion, but he'd held back on arguing back when she'd assigned him and Josh to reading the prisoners' letters that morning.   
She'd been more lenient with him since the injury, but that didn't mean she had the patience of a saint. And while Pete didn't love his job, he wasn't looking to lose it, either.   
  
Dropping another sappy, innocent letter onto the 'safe' pile, Pete glanced up at Josh.   
  
His head was bowed, and he kept it down firmly as he opened and read over each letter on his side of the pile. It wasn't like him to be this silent, he'd usually talk or, at the very least, nag Pete about something or other.

 

"Are you feeling okay?"

 

Josh's head whipped upwards for a second, "Huh? Yeah, I'm fine." And in an instant, his head is buried once again, he's back to reading letters. Pete squinted. Something was definitely up.  
  
Tossing another letter aside, Pete cocked his head at Josh with a patient smile. "Just tell me what's wrong already."   
  
Josh's eyes flicked upwards guiltily, and the second he gave a long sigh, Pete knew that was it.

A smug smile crossed his face as Josh relented, throwing down the letters and burying his head in his hands.

"The…The Governor searched our lockers for drugs." He mumbled, peeking out from the gaps in his fingers when Pete kept silent. "Well, I mean-"  
  
"That bitch." Pete breathed, but Josh groaned and dragged his hands down his face. "But- she had me search them, she was only a witness."

 

Pete blinked.

 

"Don't you know how to say ' _no_ '?"

 

"Pete- She's our boss!" Josh complained, offering his hands in a 'come on' gesture. Pete only gave him a disapproving shake of his head, in a 'mad, not disappointed' kind of way.

"Anyway," Josh breathed, slipping his hand into his pocket. "I found this."  
  
He holds up a small plastic packet, half-filled with white powder. "It was in Walker's locker." He offers it to Pete, an unsure look crossing his face at how quiet the other man is. "I kept quiet about it, but I don't know what-"   
  
Pete takes the offered plastic easily, he's already squinting at it like it's a suspect.

He shook the packet, brow furrowed and eyes on the powder. "Looks like coke, could be heroin." He flashes his brow at Josh and tosses it back on the table, "Not gonna test it."  


Josh's eyes dart between the packet and Pete, but hold mostly on the other man. "Do you think I should tell the Governor?"

Pete snorts, "Dude, are you trying to get fired? Or- arrested?"

"Well-" Josh slumps back in his chair and throws his hands up weakly, "I'm supposed to tell her, it's my-"

 

"You already kept it a secret _once_. You had your chance, man. She's gonna eat you alive if you tell her now."

 

"I- I froze up, alright?!" He whines, defeat is written all over his face. " _I know Jon_ , and, _I don't know_ , it felt wrong to rat him out."   
  
"He had cocaine in his locker, Josh." Pete tells him, voice full of steel. "And now, it looks like it's your coke, dipshit."

 

Josh went three shades paler.

 

"Shit."

 

Pete struggles not to scoff again, "Damn right, shit."  
  
"What do I do?" Josh peeks out from the gaps in his fingers again, he seemed at a loss for words beyond that phrase. And Pete tried not to roll his eyes. He really did.   
  
"I'll come to your rescue." He sighs dryly, grabbing the small packet and jamming it into his pocket, as he gives Josh a pointed look. "You're _welcome_."

 

 

 

 

 

 

Rob Dupre was not a stupid man. He didn't reach the rank of 'Inspector' by being oblivious or having a shitty intuition, and right now, his intuition was screaming.  
  
He took a swig of his coffee, eyes darting upwards as he stared at David over the rim.

David was hiding something. He could feel it. Problem was, feelings weren't enough basis to drag his former boss into an interrogation room and keep him there until he cracked; Rob needed evidence. Something solid, something concrete.

 

And logically, the best place to start was David's house.

 

He'd knocked on his front door that afternoon, and he'd played most of the suspicion off with a vague 'I was in the neighborhood' excuse.  
  
Still, David hadn't earned his rank for nothing. And as time had dragged on and the conversations had kept dipping into silence, David's stares had only grown more doubtful.   
  
Stifling a sigh, the Inspector placed his cup on the coffee table that sat between them. David followed his lead, dropping his own mug with a controlled click, before leaning back in his seat and crossing his arms.

 

"Why did you come here, Rob?"

 

The tone was familiar, but the question made his jaw clench.  
Rob needed evidence, but David had let him out of his line of sight since he'd stepped through the door; He wasn't stupid either.   
  
There was no point in bullshitting him.

 

The Inspector didn't hide his next sigh. He tilted his head and gave David a steely, pointed look. "A criminal wanted by half of the country is not someone to be playing cat and mouse with, David."  
  
David didn't even flinch. He only shook his head absently, shoulders _almost_ daring to rise in a shrug.

 

"If you're talking about that stolen money. I don't have it, and I don't want it."

 

"I'm glad." Rob says dryly once he realizes David is committed to playing dumb.  
  
"Besides-" David groans out as he reaches for his cup again, flashing a small smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "I have faith in our police department. I'm sure you'll catch him soon."

 

The Inspector's eyes skip around the room for a moment.

It's a typical living room, there's pictures of their family everywhere and it's an impossibly wholesome space. For a moment, Rob really doubts he can find any evidence here.

 

Then, he remembers this is _David Stump_ he's talking about.

 

"It's not that easy." Dupre says on a sigh, "He never camps in the same place twice, he's constantly on the move, he only uses cash-"  
  
"Hard man to find."   
  
"Yeah, he's one slippery bastard." He says quietly, sipping at his coffee once again.

A moment passes, but the Inspector can't help eyeing David sternly once more.

"Any clues or information would really help."  
  
David is still and quiet for a few moments. When his hands twitch to throw up in a clueless gesture, a voice cracks through the silence like a whip.

 

"Dad. Can you come here a sec?"

  
Rob tosses his head over his shoulder, eyes jumping towards a man he assumes is… _Kevin?_

_Kyle_ , _Kevin_ \- something beginning with a 'K', but he's not too sure; The only one of David's children he's sure about is the one who saved his life in the forest. The other two he only half-remembers from the snippets of stories David would tell around the water cooler.

 

David pushes himself to his feet, half-stutters an apology that Rob only nods his head at. He's gone from the room a second later- the wooden living room door swinging shut behind them.

Footsteps disappear, their voices become distant and so muffled that the Inspector can't understand them.

 

His eyes skip away from the door, favoring the rest of the room instead.

David's hiding something. He's hiding something and Rob knows it.

 

It's just a case of finding out _what_ he's hiding. And, where it is.

 

With a slow, cautious stare locking on the door, the Inspector pushes himself to his feet- ignoring the painful twinge in his leg as he does. He's been slower since the injury, it makes him feel vulnerable, and that puts him on edge; It's a vicious cycle he's not sure he's going to escape any time soon.  
  
He takes a few slow steps until his knees are braced against the table's edge. He stands in the middle of the room, scanning the room with a sweep of his head and frantic skipping from his eyes.   
  
Lamps, frames, keys, books, a clock, a fireplace- it's typical, innocuous, and yet, he knows he's missing something. That knowing itch under his skin is driving him insane, he needs to get to the bottom of this, he needs to find whatever David is so keen on hiding.   
  
Stifling a frustrated grunt, he turns in place and sways in place half-heartedly, trying to search with his eyes before he started rifling through David's things; He could come back at any second with no warning, Rob couldn't afford to get caught in the act.   
  
His eyes flick along the wall, the coat rack, the couch-   
  
He freezes, eyes narrowing into a squint.   
There's a blanket hanging over the of the sofa. It's wool, but one of the edges is misshapen, almost as though it's been tugged there.   
  
It's stupid. People straighten their blankets and cushions all the time, it's a tiny, minuscule detail that doesn't matter, or even mean anything.   
It's all Rob can tell himself as he reaches out towards it, his intuition quietening down as he takes a fistful of the fabric and tugs it back.

 

He inhales, it's so sharp it stings his lungs.

 

There's a tiny hole there. The fabric around it is singed. And the Inspector knows a bullet hole when he sees one.

Now, he just needs to find the bullet.

 

He tugs the blanket back into place and turns on his heel, squinting at the scene in front of him for any glint of metal. He only sees it when the light hits the silvery bullet just right; It's buried in the fire grate, squashed and disfigured from the speed. It's like a beacon, it's all he's been searching for and the rest of the room melts away when he sees it.  
  
Every movement is still cautious as he crosses the room. David could come back at any moment, he's painfully aware of that.   
  
Tilting his head down at the malformed bullet, he crouches down- having to grit his teeth when his leg protests with a blunt stab of pain. He reaches out to it, picking at the edges with his fingers in an effort to shake it loose, but it's practically fused to the grate.   
  
Throwing a quick glance back at the living room door, Rob fishes his keys out of his pocket. He just about manages to ease the bullet out of the coarse metal, but the key's ridges leave dark red marks on his fingers; He'll have to remember to keep his hands out of David's line of sight.   
  
Standing once again and shoving his keys back into his pocket, he holds the squished bullet between his index and thumb. He twists it, and squints at it from all angles; He has a hunch what type of gun it came from, but again, tests are always better than jumping to conclusion.   
  
Just then, he hears footsteps starting up again, like the slow revving of a car coming around the bend. He hardly thinks, his brain flashes white, but he folds a fist around the bullet and jams it into his pocket.   
The Inspector slips back onto the couch and practically swipes his coffee off the table. He takes a casual sip as the door opens, only for his nose to wrinkle the instant it's in his mouth; It's gone cold.   
  
He gulps and hides his grimace as he glances up at David, offering him a lenient nod as he gives him another quick apology.   
  
David gives a long suffering sigh and collapses in his armchair once again. His hands smacking down on the armrests, he smiles. His eyes don't move an inch.

 

 

 

 

 

 

"It's for Ryan." Josh marvels, his eyes are pretty much glued to the name scrawled on the envelope. It's pinned between his fingers, he's just plucked it from the pile, and Pete can't quite read the blank look on his face.  
  
He stares at Josh for a moment, he's frozen in place, gaze stuck on the same spot. Pete opens his mouth, ready to chastise and tell him to get on with it, when Josh practically throws it at him.   
  
"Hey-!" Pete protests, an annoyed grunt in the back of his throat as he reads the front of the envelope for himself.   
  
"He makes me nervous, man! I'm not gonna read his personal stuff-" Josh fires back, but the appeal doesn't last long; his mouth snaps shut the second Pete knits his brow and hits him with a hard 'shush'.   
  
"No return address," Pete hums, brow still furrowed at the envelope like he's decided it's guilty. He opens it carefully, no tears, no wrinkles; it's an art, and Pete's had hours of practice by now.   
  
He peers down at the contents, and a confused noise escapes him.   
  
It was a 50 dollar note. Fresh, new and wrinkle-free, almost as though it's been snatched directly from the BEP. The only blemish on the paper seems to be a few lightly scrawled words and numbers, the handwriting isn't the best, and it's written in pencil so Pete takes care not to smudge anything as he holds it up to the light fixtures and squints at the barely visible writing. He's still suspicious about this; Ryan's a tricky one, and if Brendon is anything like him, it can't be this easy.

 

And it's not. There's only one word. 'Fever' and it's scratched above the serial number.

The numbers that are scribbled down are longer, more complicated, and worst of all, probably meaningless to anyone who isn't Ryan or Brendon.

 

"Is that all?" Josh queries, and Pete answers on a hum. "Yeah, don't like the look of it."

 

"Could it be from…?"

"Brendon?" Pete finishes with a scowl, his eyes skip over to Josh. "Probably."

 

Chair legs scrape the ground as Josh hurries to his feet, rounding the table until he's leaning down beside Pete's shoulder and squinting at the dollar in his hands along with him.

 

"He's trying to get in touch with Ryan." He mumbles after a pause, "We should take this to the Governor."  
  
Pete huffs, "We should take this to the cops, Inspector Dupre knows more about this than she does."

 

Josh almost rolls his eyes.

" _Or_." He drawls dryly, "We could call both of them."

 

"… _Fine_."

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ryan's back is turned, his head his bowed, neck is tilted, and he's oddly off-guard.

It seems a little reckless, in Patrick's opinion. As far as he knows, Ryan isn’t very well liked, he has his fair share of enemies both in and outside of Colbert's boundaries.  
  
He's not sure how to begin. Clearing his throat seems awkward, tapping him on the shoulder might result in a broken wrist- and, since he doubts Doctor Reynolds would even give him a bandage at this point, that's something he's not willing to risk.

 

"Hi." He tries instead, hastily straightening out his grimace when Ryan twists in his seat.

 

"Hi." Ryan mirrors, giving him a small smile that, chillingly, looks real. His eyes skip over to Dallon- who insisted on following him, even when Patrick had waltzed up to Ryan's cell. He'd hung back though, just like Patrick had asked him to, standing outside by the railings as he fidgeted with his hands.

 

"Has he been okay?"

Patrick assumes he isn't asking how Dallon is _feeling_ , it's more about how he's behaving. That makes his skin break out with horrified goosebumps, it sets a nervous lump in his throat, and, in trying to avoid talking about Dallon as if he were a dog, Patrick only nods.   
  
"Yeah, it's a…it's a nice gesture." He trails off into a mutter for a moment, but his eyes flick upwards sharply a second later. His features harden, lower, and he all but growls at Ryan.

 

"What do you want?"

 

Ryan gives him a wide-eyed look, like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. "Nothing!" He says, eyes flinching into a squint, "Are you _always_ this suspicious?"   
  
Patrick scoffs, head tugging back and arms folding over his chest. He's not usually this confrontational, but Ryan brings it out in him in force. "Uh- Well, _forgive me_ , but, you _have_ tried to kill me a couple times."   
  
Ryan breathes a laugh, shaking his head with an absent toss of his hand. "I haven't tried that hard. If I wanted you dead, you'd already have a headstone."

 

Patrick pinches the bridge of his nose. Ryan gives a long suffering sigh.

 

"Look." He says softly, rising from his seat and turning to lean on the edge of the small table. Ryan crosses his arms and motions his head towards Dallon, "It's a gesture of goodwill."  
  
"Truth is, since you've arrived, I haven't been very nice to you. I'm sorry about that, I really am. I had my reasons, but you still didn't deserve to get beaten up-"   
  
"Okay-"   
  
"Strangled."   
  
"That's-"   
  
" _Maimed_ ."   
  
"I'm not maimed! I'm fine!" He barks, a spike of anger flashing through him when Ryan only laughs.   
He takes a deep breath, looks away from Ryan's smugly amused smile for a moment.   
  
Patrick gives a put upon sigh and gestures with a lazy hand, "You didn't have to _give me_ Dallon, alright? An apology would've sufficed."   
  
He chances a quick glance over his shoulder, Dallon isn't even looking their way; His head is buried, and he seems intent on rearranging the lines on his knuckles as he picks at them.   
  
Patrick gives another choked sigh and turns back to Ryan, "I don't need anyone following me around, or doing my chores- it's weird. Alright? It's weird."   
  
"Hey c'mon." Ryan nudges his shoulder, and it's just a little too friendly for Patrick to stomach. His mouth curls into a scowl he just can't suppress.   
  
Ryan either doesn't notice it, or ignores it. He doesn't miss a beat as he continues trying to drag Patrick down to his point of view. "He's more of a walking-talking statement than a helper, anyway. But, regardless-"   
  
He holds his hands up with finality. "My intentions are good," He finishes, "I promise you that."   
  
Patrick squints at Ryan again. It's an odd thing to do, but then again, Ryan's a weird guy; Weird people equal weird actions, he supposes.   
And besides, if he keeps pushing this, Ryan might get really offended. Or, he might take Dallon back, and do god knows what to him.   
  
If Patrick can spare him from Ryan for a week, at the very least- it's better than nothing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Inspector holds up the envelope like he's making an example out of it. "Our graphologists say that the writing on the note corresponds to that of Brendon Urie's." His eyes skip around the others there, "This right here is our best lead."

 

"So, what does 'fever' mean?" Josh asks, but Dupre can only shake his head at him.

"No idea." He clips dismissively, he turns to Pete as he sighs his frustrations. "When do they get the letters?"  


"They're handed out after breakfast, an inmate gives them out."

 

Inspector Dupre nods deeply, his even tone drags everyone's attention firmly back to him. "It's vital that Ryan gets this letter. And he can never know we've seen it."   
He shakes the envelope firmly and only once, "The best thing to do is act natural, if he gets suspicious, he'll be more careful."   
  
There's a moment of silence, but then Josh is giving another suffering sigh and throwing his hands up helplessly.

 

"Am I the only one who still doesn't understand what 'fever' means?"

 

"I can only assume it's a code word for something." The Inspector drawls, dropping his hand and scowling at the word on the note through the paper. "We'll probably never know what _for_ , exactly. The only thing we're sure about are the numbers; One's a phone number, the other's a serial number from one of the stolen notes."   
  
"A phone number?" The Governor interjects. She glances around at the others, "Maybe we should call it, track it or something-"   
  
"No." Dupre cuts through her thought and finishes it sternly. "Our best bet is that Ryan calls that number. If Urie hears anybody that isn't him on the other end of the line, he'll toss whatever phone he's using."   
  
He tips his chin up, eyes skipping over to the Governor once again. "We'll need to tap all the phone booths. I'll ask for a court order, if you'll allow it."   
  
She nods deeply, eyelids falling shut and taking a long sip of her coffee.   
  
"This is the best opportunity we're gonna get." The Inspector almost announces, he's sure of himself, and already bouncing with the prospect of putting Brendon behind bars.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The RV is small and uncomfortable, and fuck, if Brendon doesn't miss sleeping spread eagle on an actual bed- _not a fold-out mattress_ .   
  
It's a lazy, warm midday, and he's folded up in the driver's seat, feet propped up on the dashboard. His elbow is shoved against the window, and he's holding a phone to his ear, listening and listening and just fucking waiting for someone to finally pick up.   
  
A yawn escapes him, he's just pressing his free hand over his mouth when a voice punctures the monotone ringing and bursts to life from the phone.   
  
He practically jumps a foot in the air, the insistent voice kills his yawn and slaps him wide awake. "Uh- Hi, hello, uh-" He shakes his head at himself, "I need some stuff."   
  
There's a pause, and Brendon's heart almost stops right there and then.

 

It's taken literal days and a fuck-ton of codes to get to this point. He needs this, it's the final stage in the extremely elaborate plan Ryan had insisted on using. Like it or not, Ryan's freedom is depending on this. On him.

 

He can't fuck this up.

 

Like an answer to a prayer, the voice crackles back onto the line and gives him the go-ahead.

Brendon holds back a sigh of relief and clambers out of the driver's seat, "You writing this down? I- Hello? Oh, yeah- Yeah, listen."

 

Brendon hums into the phone, fitting it snugly between his shoulder and ear. He reaches up towards one of the overhead compartments, pulling the latch open with a loud clack. "Six assault rifles, handguns, ammunition, couple of grenades, blah blah blah- you get it."  
  
He rolls his eyes as the man on the other end of the line warns him about the prices, as if Brendon isn't aware…or doesn't have a few million stashed in the duffel bag he drags out of the compartment.   
  
It's a hardy bag, he'd searched every store in town, this was the absolute biggest he could find, and it _only just_ fits the hoard.

It had taken forever to dig up the money from the ground, there'd been times he was sure his shovel was about to break or his arms were about to collapse. It had been hard fucking work, it wasn't like he'd grown up on a farm or something- he'd been unprepared and _boy_ , had it hurt. His arms still ached from that ordeal.   
  
The man on the other end of the line tallied up the usual order, taking a moment to pause and give a doubtful sigh as he read out the price.   
  
It even made Brendon flinch; It was fucking _obscene_.

Still, all it took was once look down at the duffel bag, and a proud smile spread across his face.

 

"Yeah. That's fine." He assured the man on the line, "Don't worry about the money. You'll get every cent."  
  
  



End file.
